You’d scrubbed them raw under the garden tap, but you could still feel it. The warm, wet weight of the pup’s body. The way it had gone still.

Your father had called it a good shot. A fine pelt for winter.

You’d called it dinner and gone to your room without another word.

Now, the moon was a thin sliver overhead, casting just enough light to see the rows of carrots and radishes you were meant to be tending.

Your fingers found the soil. Cool. Damp. Familiar.

The snap of a twig came from the treeline.

You froze.

The sound of breath. Low. Guttural. Not human.

Before you could turn, something hit you from the side. Teeth sank into your forearm—not deep enough to sever, but deep enough to hold. To drag.

The world lurched. Your boots scraped against the dirt as you were pulled, stumbling, toward the dark.