Raymond glanced back toward the house. The wind had picked up even more, sending circles of snow swirling around his boots. This animal wouldn’t last much longer—not like this. Still, something about the way it stayed put, even now, unsettled him.
Like it was waiting. Or guarding something. He shook the thought away. No—just a pig, probably escaped from somewhere. Cold, weak, too tired to run. That was all. But the doubt lingered. Raymond took a final step, close enough now to hear the pig’s shallow breathing.
Then, cautiously, he crouched—just slightly—just enough to get a better look at its face. The pig gave one more gruff snort, but didn’t move. Raymond exhaled slowly. He couldn’t lift it—not in this state. Not at eighty-two. His knees already ached from crouching, and his back had been giving him trouble for years.
The pig might not resist, but that wasn’t the problem. He turned and made his way back toward the house, snow stinging his cheeks and frustration building in his chest. Inside, Raymond closed the door behind him and leaned against it, breath unsteady, mind racing.