A low snort cut through the storm, muffled but unmistakable. He blinked. Snort? He took a cautious step closer, heart quickening. The animal’s back rose slightly, revealing a rounded torso, coarse bristles wet and clumped from the snow.
A faint odor reached him—a musty, earthy scent beneath the sharp cold. Another snort followed, louder this time, accompanied by a sluggish turn of the head. Small, wide-set eyes. A flat snout crusted with ice. Raymond squinted harder. “A pig?” he muttered aloud, stunned.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” It didn’t make sense. There were no farms nearby anymore—at least none with loose livestock. And certainly no reason for a pig to be out in weather like this. Sure, pigs could survive in the cold, but this was different. This was deadly cold.
Windchill in the negatives. Snow piling fast. What on earth was it doing here? The pig shifted again, grunting softly, its thick body trembling with fatigue. It didn’t rise. Didn’t even try. It simply stared at him with wary eyes, as if sizing him up, as if calculating whether he was friend or foe.