Only two northern white rhinos are left on this Earth. Charlie's one of them. A grunt doesn't pick their battles or the odds

Call them a fat unicorn, go on. They've heard worse from better. A grunt doesn't dwell; they dig in. Keep their head down, night vision sharp, horn aimed at the abyss. That's not fear in their eye. That's the thousand-yard stare of a species on its last mile.

The poachers have come and gone; they made their profits. It's down to the millionaires paying a hundred grand to pull a trigger and call it sport. He'll put Charlie's head on a mahogany wall and boast how he ended a species.

Charlie will raise objections.