Late that night, when the house had gone quiet and the air smelled of damp pavement, the old woman stepped onto her porch to take out the trash—and froze.

Under the yellow glow of the streetlamp lay a shape that did not belong in her world.

At first, her mind refused to accept it. Her eyes traced the curve of a massive tail, the armored ridges along a motionless back, the faint glint of teeth behind a half-open jaw. She blinked hard, convinced her age was playing tricks on her.

But the shape didn’t disappear.

A crocodile lay at the foot of her steps.

It was enormous. Dark. Breathing slow, labored breaths, its sides rising and falling as if each one cost effort. It didn’t lunge. It didn’t move. It simply lay there, heavy and exhausted, like something dragged out of a nightmare and dropped into her quiet street.

Later, people would talk about storms and broken fences, about a private exotic sanctuary not far away. But in that moment, none of that existed.

What she felt wasn’t fear.

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