Tom nodded, tossing the shovel aside. “In the truck,” he said. “Let’s move.” They wrapped the creature tightly in the towel. Even through the fabric, it was unnervingly light, fragile, as if one wrong touch might break it. Mud still clung to its fur, or skin, they couldn’t tell which.
Owen wiped at its face once with his thumb, but hesitated. The mud there had hardened, forming a crust. He thought about clearing it, but stopped. After everything it had been through, even that might be too much.