By the time Tom came back from the van, the rain had stopped completely. The clouds were still heavy, but a pale band of light pushed through the breaks, washing the hill in a dull, silvery glow. The air smelled of wet bark and rust. “The mud’s starting to set,” Tom said, handing Owen the small shovel. “Might be easier now that the ground’s tightening up a bit.”
Owen nodded and crouched near the dog again. The animal watched him warily but didn’t growl this time, just shivered. He pressed the blade of the shovel into the side of the slope, scooping carefully. The top layer peeled away in thick chunks.