It was saving something else. Raymond’s heart thudded. He stood slowly and took several steps back toward the shed. Then he opened the door wide, laid out the old camping blanket, and waited. It didn’t take long.
The scent must have done the rest. He turned in time to see the pig lurch to its feet, trembling but determined. It staggered forward through the trail he’d cleared—pausing only once to glance back at the small hollow it left behind—then hobbled into the shed and collapsed on the blanket, utterly spent.
Raymond wasted no time. He sprinted across the yard, dropped to his knees at the hollow, and began brushing snow away with both hands. The crust was packed and hard, but not deep. Then his fingers found it. A patch of wet fur.
A small, curled body. Trembling. Still alive. He wrapped it in his scarf, cradled it against his chest, and carried it into the shed. The pig watched him, eyes half-lidded but tracking his every movement. He laid the bundle beside her.