The screams came just before noon. We stopped, not knowing what to say or do. “They took them,” Braschi said. Shouts, distant but clearly human, growls. Here's what we heard. Had the men gotten too close and the pack had attacked them? What could we do but call for help? But what would they find once there? "What do we do?" Braschi asked again. Undecided, but ready to act. "Let's go and see," said Mancini, "but let's keep as much as possible inside the woods." We moved. When the trees thinned out, the scene was dramatic in our eyes: we were still far away, we couldn't clearly distinguish what we saw.


Trunks and branches didn't make the view perfect, but we understood what was happening. The wolves, somehow, had arrived behind the small group that had previously followed them. And they were attacking him. It was a matter of a few moments. We Phone Number Datasaw those dark shapes run across the snow as if it were solid ground and sweep the men away. A chaos of blood and shreds of flesh. Scream, growl. Sounds of shattering bones, of jaws in action, of flesh being torn and torn. We quickened our pace, while the vision of the carnage did not leave our thoughts. We didn't say a word.



We were shocked. And we were afraid. "My cell phone doesn't work," I said after a few minutes, before tackling the descent. “Not mine either,” added Braschi. Like Mancini's. We began to descend into the valley, the slope a sheet of semi-frozen snow, the trees sticking out of the ground like dead men in a resurgence blocked by the frost or like anonymous poles stuck at random by a tired god.That's when he understands. He has already gone back many times in his life, back to write unread stories that would pile up on top of each other without generating readers. But what is a story if it doesn't have a reader? It is a silent reality imprisoned in unconsciousness.