Every inch toward the truck felt like a mile. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He reached the truck and heaved the pig into the bed with every ounce of strength left in his body. Then—he turned for the smaller creature, still swaddled in cloth. As he leaned down to lift it, his foot caught the icy edge of the drive.
His legs flew out from under him. The ground slammed into his back. A flash of white pain shot up his spine. He gasped, wind knocked clean out of him. For a moment, he couldn’t move. The cold seeped through him, fast and punishing. No. Not now.
He clenched his jaw, teeth gritted against the pain, and forced himself to roll over. The blanket-wrapped creature lay just feet away, untouched. Whimpering softly. Raymond groaned, pushed to his knees, and crawled to it.
He pulled the bundle against his chest and rose, one foot at a time, his breath ragged. He staggered to the truck, opened the passenger door, and gently placed the creature on the seat. Then he climbed in behind the wheel, every muscle in his back screaming in protest.