Mist casts ragged nets, ice snapping underfoot. The dog’s still there. Huddled. Shaking. She could drive it away. Instead she props the woodshed door. Brings a blanket, scraps, water.

Shoots every bolt when the police leave.

Haunted by the dog’s empty eyes.

And its collar, crimsoned by a killer’s fingerprints.

Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.