Each scoop revealed more of the dog’s outline: strong shoulders, a thick neck, ribs moving faintly under matted fur. The mud clung to everything like glue. Then a sound broke the silence; a faint noise, short and high. Clara looked up. “Did you hear that?”
Owen stopped. The shovel froze mid-motion. “Yeah. Probably the dog.” But when the sound came again, thinner this time, it didn’t seem to come from the dog at all. It came from under it. Tom frowned. “What the hell was that?”