“Damn it,” he muttered, breath quickening. He paused, hands heavy with mud, and looked at the animal. Its chest heaved once, twice, then stilled again. Every muscle seemed locked in place, as if it understood what he didn’t, that too much movement could make things worse.
Owen sat back on his heels, panting, mud dripping from his hands. He looked at the slope, at the faint glisten of water trickling from above, and could see how every scoop he took made the ground settle a little more beneath the dog. If he kept digging underneath, it would only sink deeper.