As we waited at the main camp for Owen, the bush vet, I told Thomas the rules of safari. “Don’t get out of the vehicle. Don’t stand up in the vehicle. The animals see us as one big entity, and if you separate yourself from that profile, you’re in trouble.”

“Sorry to keep you. There was a rhino relocation that didn’t go as smoothly as I hoped.” Owen Dunkirk came hurrying out, carrying a bag and his rifle. Owen was a bear of a man who preferred to dart from a vehicle rather than a helicopter. We used to be on good terms, until I switched my focus of fieldwork. Owen was old school; he believed in evidence and statistics. I might as well have said I was using a research grant to study voodoo or prove the existence of unicorns. “Thomas,” I said. “This is Owen, our vet. Owen, this is Thomas Metcalf. He’s visiting for a few days.”

“You sure you’re still up to this, Alice?” Owen said. “Maybe you’ve forgotten how to collar, since you’ve been writing elephant eulogies and whatnot.”

I ignored his jab, and the strange look Thomas Metcalf gave me. “I’m pretty sure I can do this with my eyes closed,” I told Owen. “Which is more than I can say for you. Aren’t you the guy who missed your shot last time? A target as big as … well … an elephant?”

Anya joined us in the Land Rover. When we went out to collar an elephant, we needed two researchers and three vehicles, so that the herd could be managed while we did our work. The other two Land Rovers were being driven by rangers, one of whom had already been tracking Tebogo’s herd today.

Collaring is an art, not a science. I don’t like to collar during droughts, or in the summer, when the temperature’s too high. Elephants overheat so quickly that you need to monitor their temperature when they go down. The idea is to get the vet about twenty meters from the elephant, so that he can safely shoot the dart. Once that matriarch drops, panic ensues, which is why you ideally want experienced rangers around you who know how to push a herd, and you don’t want novices like Thomas Metcalf, who might do something stupid.

When we reached Bashi’s vehicle, I glanced around, pleased. The landscape was perfect for a darting—flat and wide, so that the elephant, if she ran, wouldn’t hurt herself. “Owen,” I said, “you ready?”

He nodded, loading the M99 into his dart gun.

“Anya? You take the rear and I’ll take the head. Bashi? Elvis? We want to push the herd to the south,” I said. “Okay, on three.”

“Wait.” Thomas put his hand on my arm. “What do I do?”

“Stay in the Rover and try not to get yourself killed.”

After that, I forgot about Thomas Metcalf. Owen shot the dart, which landed square in Tebogo’s bottom. She startled and squealed, whipping her head around. She didn’t pull out the little flag, and neither did another elephant, although sometimes I’d seen that happen.

Her distress was contagious, though. The herd bunched, some facing backward around her for protection, some trying to touch her. There was rumbling that rattled the ground, and every elephant began to secrete, the oily residue streaking their cheeks. Tebogo walked a few steps, nodded, and then the M99 kicked in. Her trunk went limp, her head drooped, her body swayed, and she started to go down.

That was when we had to act, and fast. If the herd wasn’t moved away from the fallen matriarch, they could injure her trying to get her upright again—spearing her with a tusk—or make it impossible for us to get close enough to Tebogo to revive her with an antidote. She could have fallen on a branch; she could have fallen on her trunk. The trick was to never show fear. If the herd came after us now and we backed off, we’d lose everything—including this matriarch.

“Now,” I yelled, and Bashi and Elvis revved their engines. They clapped, howled, and chased the herd with the vehicles, scattering the elephants so that we could pull closer to the matriarch. As soon as there was a good gap between us and the other elephants, Owen and Anya and I leaped out of our vehicle, leaving the rangers to manage the flustered herd.

We only had about ten minutes. Immediately I made sure Tebogo was fully on her side, and that the ground beneath her was clear. I folded her ear over her eye to protect her from dirt and direct sunlight. She stared at me, and I could see the terror in her gaze.

“Shh,” I soothed. I wanted to stroke her, but knew I couldn’t. Tebogo was not asleep, she was conscious of every noise and touch and smell. For this reason, I would touch her as minimally as possible.

I put a small stick between the two fingers of her trunk, so that it would remain open; an elephant can’t breathe through its mouth and will suffocate if the opening of the trunk is blocked. Tebogo snored lightly as I poured water on her ear and over her body, cooling her down for comfort. Then I slipped the collar around her thick neck, settling the receiver of the unit on the top of the elephant, and tied it down under her chin. I tightened the ratchet of the bolt, leaving a space of two hands between her chin and the counterweight, and filed down the metal edges. Anya worked madly, taking blood and a tiny skin clipping from Tebogo’s ear and plucking tail hair for DNA, measuring her feet and her temperature, her tusks and the height from foot to scapula. Owen did a once-over, cataloging the elephant for injury, checking her breathing. Finally, we inspected the collar to make sure the GPS system was working, beeping properly.

The whole thing had taken nine minutes, thirty-four seconds.