Clara gasped. “Oh my God, it’s moving.” Owen knelt, heart hammering. “What the hell is this?” he whispered. Tom squinted through the rain. “I think it’s a puppy,” he said. “I wouldn’t be too sure,” Clara murmured, leaning closer. The thing trembled inside the ruined box, slick with mud, its small limbs twitching weakly.
“Its legs… They’re too short. And the claws… they’re thicker than they should be.” Owen frowned, unsure. The creature let out a frail, rasping noise that barely counted as a cry. “It’s breathing,” Tom said quietly. “Whatever it is, it’s still breathing.”