He grabbed his flashlight again, bundled up in double layers, and stepped once more into the storm. The wind hit harder this time, slicing across Raymond’s face and tugging at his coat like greedy fingers.
He clutched the tin plate close, its shallow bed of peanut butter stuck to it like a piece of candy. The scent was already cutting through the cold, thick and distinct in the frigid air. Raymond moved carefully, retracing his earlier path across the yard.
The snow had risen fast; his previous footprints had already vanished, erased like he’d never been out here at all. His flashlight beam bounced and swayed as he walked, and finally landed on the motionless lump near the fence.
Still there. Still half-buried. Still watching. The pig hadn’t moved since Raymond left. It looked even weaker now—hunched, shivering, glazed in ice. Snow had piled along its back, clinging to the bristles in rigid ridges.