He reached closer, trying to clear the mud along the dog’s flank. The surface gave easily at first, slumping away like wet clay. He scooped at it with both hands, but the deeper he dug, the faster it filled back in. The mud was alive, always sliding back to where it started. The dog whimpered but didn’t move, its eyes flicking toward the ground, not toward him.
Owen realized it wasn’t afraid of him, it was afraid of what the shifting mud might do. He tried again on the other side, working slower this time, hoping to open a space near its ribs. Within seconds, the small trench he’d made began to close in, water seeping through the soft soil. Each attempt seemed to make the slope settle lower.