He leaned forward again, uncertain why. Maybe instinct. Maybe guilt. The dog’s breathing had steadied, a faint rise and fall beneath the thick coat of mud. Owen hesitated, then slid one hand slowly along its side, fingers sinking into the cold earth beside it.
Something solid met his touch; not rock, not root. It had edges. Straight ones. For a moment, he thought it might be a piece of wood buried beneath, but when he tried to feel around it, the surface gave slightly, soft like fabric slick with mud.