Only the subtle rise and fall of its chest gave any sign that it was still breathing. Raymond slowed, crouching a few feet away, and slid the tin of peanut butter into the snow. “There you go,” he murmured. “It’s warm inside. And dry.”
The pig’s ears twitched. It didn’t snort or grunt. Just stared. Then—a sound. Not from the pig. A faint, muffled whimper. Raymond stiffened. Another squeak, soft and strained, rose beneath the pig’s body. He leaned slightly to the side, squinting through the wind.
That’s when he saw it—a flicker of movement beneath the pig’s belly. A small quiver in the snow, as if something hidden underneath had stirred. Something alive. The pig shifted slightly, curling tighter around the form beneath it.
For a second, Raymond glimpsed a smear of fur. Not the pig’s. Something else. Smaller. It was guarding it. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Whatever that creature was, the pig had kept it warm—shielded it with the last of its strength. It wasn’t just surviving.