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The mud kept swallowing everything he dug. Every handful he cleared slid back into place, erasing his effort like the earth was alive. Owen’s hands were numb, his breath ragged, the rain stinging his face as he tried to free the dog. It whimpered once, weak and strained, its eyes wide with panic.

“Easy,” he muttered, voice trembling. He pressed his hand along its side, searching for where it was caught. His fingers met something solid under the surface. Something that shouldn’t be there. The dog flinched, twisting slightly, a low cry rumbling in its chest. Whatever held it wasn’t letting go.

He tried again, digging faster, the mud collapsing around his wrists. The rain came harder, drowning the sound of his breath. The animal’s movements slowed until only its shallow breathing remained. Owen’s heart pounded in his throat. If he kept digging, he’d bury it alive. If he stopped, it would die anyway.

Owen had driven this route a hundred times before. The narrow dirt road curved through low hills and pockets of farmland, past rusted mailboxes and the same leaning fenceposts he barely noticed anymore. He was halfway through his last delivery, thinking mostly about coffee and dry socks, when the sky began to shift.

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At first, it was just a dimming of the light, like someone had lowered the brightness of the day. Then came the wind quick, impatient gusts that made the trees shiver. He glanced through the windshield. The clouds had thickened into one long bruise stretching across the horizon.

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The first drop hit his window, then another, then dozens more. Within seconds, it was a sheet of rain. The road turned slick, the mud softening under the tires. He switched on the wipers, leaning closer to the glass, squinting at the twisting road ahead.

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Half a kilometer further, he spotted movement, the slope on his right seemed wrong, darker somehow. Then he realized the side of the hill had collapsed, spilling mud and roots into the roadside ditch. It wasn’t a full landslide, just a messy spill from the rain loosening the topsoil. He slowed down, scanning the edge for fallen debris. That’s when he saw the dog.

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At first, it looked like part of the slide itself; brown, soaked, and half-covered in mud. Then it moved. The dog was pawing at the collapsed soil, digging frantically, whining between breaths. Each pawful of mud just fell back in, but it kept going, relentless, as if something precious was buried underneath.

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Owen frowned. He eased his foot off the brake, keeping the van idling in neutral. It wasn’t uncommon to see strays in these parts, but this one seemed desperate. He leaned across the seat and cracked his window. Rain rushed in, cold and sharp.

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“Hey, buddy!” he called out. Its head jerked once toward him, then back to the earth. The sound it made wasn’t barking; it was pleading, rhythmic and hoarse. For a second, Owen considered pulling over properly, stepping out, and seeing what was wrong. But the mud looked treacherous, slick as oil, and he still had a package to deliver.

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If he stopped now, he’d only end up covered in muck and be late for his drop-off. He sighed. “I’ll check on you when I head back,” he muttered under his breath, rolling the window up. The dog’s shape disappeared behind the curtain of rain as he drove off.

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The storm worsened. The road narrowed into a tunnel of water. By the time he reached the farmhouse at the end of the route, the gutters were overflowing, the driveway a shallow stream. He parked beneath a tree, grabbed the parcel from the back, and sprinted to the porch.

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A woman opened the door before he could knock. She was middle-aged, her apron damp, her hair pinned back in a hurry. “You made it through this?” she said, signing the receipt with a quick scrawl. “It’s been pouring since noon.”

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“Yeah,” Owen said, forcing a polite smile. “Road’s not looking great,” he said. “Wouldn’t surprise me if there are more landslides tonight,” she replied, handing the clipboard back. “You take care, now.”

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He nodded, thanked her, and jogged back to the van. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, the air suddenly cooler. As he drove away, the wipers squeaked dryly across the windshield, their rhythm marking the quiet that had settled over everything.

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He tried not to think about the dog. But every curve in the road, every patch of wet mud, pulled his thoughts back to it. He pictured it still digging, paws raw, barking into the rain. He should’ve at least checked. Just a quick stop, five minutes tops.

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When he reached the bend again, he slowed down instinctively. The sky had lightened slightly, a weak gray after the storm. The slide looked different now; wider, smoother, the rain having spread the mud into a solid slope.

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He parked on the shoulder and stepped out. The air was thick with that post-rain scent, a mix of soil and something faintly metallic. The dog was still there. Not digging this time. Not moving at all. Its back was coated in mud, its tail stiff and unmoving. Only the faintest motion of its head told him it was still alive.

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Owen’s chest tightened. “Oh, no…” he murmured, wading closer. The ground sucked at his boots, each step heavy. “Hey,” he called softly, voice unsure. “Hey, boy…” The dog’s ears twitched, but it didn’t turn. It was half-buried now, one paw completely submerged, its chest pressed flat against the earth.

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The eyes flicked toward him once, glazed, weary, then back down. He crouched nearby, careful not to spook it. Up close, he could see how matted its fur was, caked with dirt, leaves, even a few shards of bark. Its breathing was shallow, strained. He reached a hand out slowly.

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“Easy now…” The dog let out a low, guttural sound not aggressive, just a warning. Its whole body shuddered once, then went still again. “Alright,” Owen whispered, keeping his voice low. “Okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

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He reached closer, trying to clear the mud along the dog’s flank. The surface gave easily at first, slumping away like wet clay. He scooped at it with both hands, but the deeper he dug, the faster it filled back in. The mud was alive, always sliding back to where it started. The dog whimpered but didn’t move, its eyes flicking toward the ground, not toward him.

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Owen realized it wasn’t afraid of him, it was afraid of what the shifting mud might do. He tried again on the other side, working slower this time, hoping to open a space near its ribs. Within seconds, the small trench he’d made began to close in, water seeping through the soft soil. Each attempt seemed to make the slope settle lower.

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“Damn it,” he muttered, breath quickening. He paused, hands heavy with mud, and looked at the animal. Its chest heaved once, twice, then stilled again. Every muscle seemed locked in place, as if it understood what he didn’t, that too much movement could make things worse.

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Owen sat back on his heels, panting, mud dripping from his hands. He looked at the slope, at the faint glisten of water trickling from above, and could see how every scoop he took made the ground settle a little more beneath the dog. If he kept digging underneath, it would only sink deeper.

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He leaned forward again, uncertain why. Maybe instinct. Maybe guilt. The dog’s breathing had steadied, a faint rise and fall beneath the thick coat of mud. Owen hesitated, then slid one hand slowly along its side, fingers sinking into the cold earth beside it.

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Something solid met his touch; not rock, not root. It had edges. Straight ones. For a moment, he thought it might be a piece of wood buried beneath, but when he tried to feel around it, the surface gave slightly, soft like fabric slick with mud.

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The dog tensed, a tremor running through its body. Its eyes snapped to his hand, a warning flicker, don’t. Owen froze, pulse climbing. He whispered, “Easy, I’m not trying to hurt you.” But curiosity clawed harder than caution. He brushed the mud again, this time feeling a small ridge or corner, something wedged tightly beneath the animal’s chest.

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It didn’t feel like the slope itself. It was separate. Man-made maybe too smooth, too even. “What are you lying on, huh?” he muttered under his breath. He couldn’t see much; the dog’s weight and the dim evening light blocked everything. But the more he probed, the clearer it became there was something trapped under there with it.

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A catch of metal, maybe. A handle? A piece of fencing? The thought made his stomach tighten. Maybe the dog wasn’t just tired. Maybe something down there had snared it; a nail, a wire, some buried scrap from the slide. That could explain why it hadn’t budged, why it stayed pinned in that unnatural stillness.

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He tried feeling again, sliding his fingers lower until the dog let out a low growl; a strained, exhausted sound that seemed to say both stop and stay. Owen pulled his hand back slowly, mud trailing down his wrist.

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Whatever it was, it wasn’t just dirt. Something beneath that body didn’t belong there, something holding the animal in place. He sat back again, wiping his hand against his thigh, heart still thudding. The dog’s eyes never left him. Behind them was fear, but not of him. Of what might happen if he pulled too hard.

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He scanned the ground for something to help; anything he could use to shift the mud without getting too close. A thick stick lay a few feet away, half-buried near the base of a tree. He pulled it free and tested its weight. It wasn’t much, but it was better than his hands. “Alright,” he murmured. “Let’s try this a different way.”

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He crouched beside the dog again and slid the stick under its belly, careful not to jab. The mud resisted like wet cement, sucking the wood in as soon as he applied pressure. He tried levering it up, just enough to create space, but the moment he did, the stick sank halfway and stuck fast.

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“Come on,” he grunted, twisting it. The ground only swallowed more of it, mud bubbling faintly around his wrist. He yanked it back with a slurp, stumbling as his boot slipped. The dog jerked, a sharp growl ripping from its throat. Louder now, and even more defensive.

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“Easy!” Owen snapped back instinctively, raising both hands. “I’m not trying to hurt you.” The animal’s growl faded into a tremor, chest still heaving. Its front paws pressed deeper into the slope, as if anchoring itself. Whatever was beneath it wasn’t letting go, and the dog wasn’t letting him interfere.

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Owen sighed, shoulders sinking. “Alright, fine,” he muttered. “Have it your way.” He stood, brushing mud from his knees, scanning the road for anyone else; maybe someone who’d know what to do. The world was empty except for the faint hiss of water trickling through the ditch. Then he heard voices. “Is that you, Owen?”

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He turned toward the sound. A pair of figures were walking up the road from the direction of town, sharing an umbrella. He recognized them even before they waved, Tom and Clara Miller, who ran the hardware shop by the post office. They looked absurdly clean against the mud-smeared landscape.

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“Good grief, what are you doing out here?” Tom called, laughter in his voice. “You get lost on your own delivery route?” Owen forced a weak grin. “Something like that,” he said, stepping aside to reveal the slope. “There’s a dog here. Been stuck since the rain started.”

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Clara’s smile vanished first. She peered over Tom’s shoulder, brow furrowing. “Oh, poor thing,” she said. “How long’s it been like that?” “Couple hours, maybe,” Owen said. “Saw it digging earlier, before the slide got worse. Came back and found it like this.”

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Tom squinted at the animal, shaking his head. “Looks bad. You try pulling it out?” he asked, looking at the situation in front of him. “Yeah,” Owen said quietly. “Tried digging too. The mud keeps closing in. It’s like quicksand.”

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As they drew closer, the dog lifted its head and growled again; a low, steady warning. The sound made the air feel tighter somehow. Tom stopped in his tracks. “Whoa,” he murmured. “He’s not happy.”

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“He’s scared,” Owen said. “Or hurt.” Clara stepped forward despite her husband’s hesitation, voice soft but certain. “Dogs don’t hold still like that unless something’s really wrong.” She crouched beside Owen, careful to keep her distance. “Poor thing probably can’t move. Maybe its leg’s caught.”

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Tom knelt a few steps back, hands on his knees. “Looks like it’s half-buried. Could be stuck on something underneath,” he said. “That’s what I thought,” Owen replied, nodding toward the slope. “Tried digging, but the mud keeps caving in. It’s like trying to scoop soup.”

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Clara frowned, scanning the dog’s shape. “If it’s caught on wire or wood from the slide, forcing it might tear something.” Tom looked at Owen. “You got anything in the van? Rope? A board? We could wedge it out, maybe.” Owen wiped the rain from his face with a muddy sleeve. “I’ve got a small shovel in the back. Not much else.”

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“Bring it,” Tom said, already moving toward the van. “If we can dig around it slowly, maybe we can free the poor thing.” Clara reached out a cautious hand toward the dog’s muzzle but stopped short when it gave a faint growl. “Hey, hey,” she whispered. “Easy now. We’re trying to help you.”

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The animal’s breathing was ragged, each exhale a tremor. Its eyes never left the muddy ground beneath its chest. Clara pulled her hand back slowly. “He’s terrified,” she murmured. “We need to go gentler.” Owen nodded, glancing toward Tom at the van. “Gentle’s all we’ve got.”

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By the time Tom came back from the van, the rain had stopped completely. The clouds were still heavy, but a pale band of light pushed through the breaks, washing the hill in a dull, silvery glow. The air smelled of wet bark and rust. “The mud’s starting to set,” Tom said, handing Owen the small shovel. “Might be easier now that the ground’s tightening up a bit.”

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Owen nodded and crouched near the dog again. The animal watched him warily but didn’t growl this time, just shivered. He pressed the blade of the shovel into the side of the slope, scooping carefully. The top layer peeled away in thick chunks.

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“Easy,” Clara murmured, kneeling opposite him. “If it’s caught on something sharp, we don’t want to hurt it.” Owen gritted his teeth. “I know.” The mud resisted, heavy and reluctant. “Feels like the soil’s gripping whatever’s down there.”

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“Maybe it’s barbed wire,” Tom offered, crouching beside them. “Could’ve washed down from the fence line up the hill.” The idea made Owen’s stomach twist. The thought of the animal lying there all this time, held fast by some rusted strand, it made his hands work faster, even as he tried to stay careful.

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Each scoop revealed more of the dog’s outline: strong shoulders, a thick neck, ribs moving faintly under matted fur. The mud clung to everything like glue. Then a sound broke the silence; a faint noise, short and high. Clara looked up. “Did you hear that?”

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Owen stopped. The shovel froze mid-motion. “Yeah. Probably the dog.” But when the sound came again, thinner this time, it didn’t seem to come from the dog at all. It came from under it. Tom frowned. “What the hell was that?”

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They exchanged glances. The dog’s ears twitched, head still bowed. Owen leaned closer, pushing one last clump of dirt aside. The edge of something flat and brown appeared beneath the animal’s chest. “Wait,” he whispered. “There’s something here.”

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He dug with his hands now, pushing the thicker clods aside until the shape took form; a box, soaked and warped on the sides, but its top oddly intact, protected by the dog’s weight. “It’s sitting on it,” Clara said softly. “It’s been lying on this thing the whole time.”

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“Cardboard,” Owen muttered, running his hand along the edge. “Soggy on the bottom, but the top’s almost dry.” The dog whimpered faintly, finally shifting its weight enough for them to slide the box free. The mud suctioned around it, reluctant to let go, then released with a quiet slurp.

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Owen pulled it closer, setting it on the firmer patch of ground near the ditch. The box sagged slightly, sides dark with moisture. “What on earth…” Clara began, but the sentence trailed off as another tiny noise came from inside. It wasn’t the dog. It wasn’t even close.

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Owen hesitated, hand hovering over the soggy flap of the box. A faint rustle came from within, then stillness. He glanced at the others. Clara’s eyes were wide; Tom’s mouth was set in a tight line. “Be careful,” Tom murmured. “Could be anything in there.”

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Owen nodded, slipping his fingers under the wet cardboard. It peeled apart with a damp tear. A clump of mud slid out first, then something soft moved beneath it; small, trembling, half-hidden. For a moment, no one spoke. The thing inside twitched again, coated entirely in thick brown sludge, indistinguishable beneath the grime. A fragile whimper escaped it, weak but alive.

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Clara gasped. “Oh my God, it’s moving.” Owen knelt, heart hammering. “What the hell is this?” he whispered. Tom squinted through the rain. “I think it’s a puppy,” he said. “I wouldn’t be too sure,” Clara murmured, leaning closer. The thing trembled inside the ruined box, slick with mud, its small limbs twitching weakly.

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“Its legs… They’re too short. And the claws… they’re thicker than they should be.” Owen frowned, unsure. The creature let out a frail, rasping noise that barely counted as a cry. “It’s breathing,” Tom said quietly. “Whatever it is, it’s still breathing.”

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They moved fast. Clara pulled a towel from the van, an old seat cover, and together they lifted the tiny thing out, careful not to press too hard. Mud sloughed off in thick clumps, revealing only patches of slick, trembling fur. Its eyes were sealed shut beneath the grime. “Poor thing,” Clara whispered. “How could it survive under all that?”

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The dog, freed now from the weight, collapsed beside them, panting weakly. Its chest rose and fell with visible effort. Owen glanced between it and the small, shaking bundle in his hands. “We need to get both of them to the vet,” he said. “Now.”

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Tom nodded, tossing the shovel aside. “In the truck,” he said. “Let’s move.” They wrapped the creature tightly in the towel. Even through the fabric, it was unnervingly light, fragile, as if one wrong touch might break it. Mud still clung to its fur, or skin, they couldn’t tell which.

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Owen wiped at its face once with his thumb, but hesitated. The mud there had hardened, forming a crust. He thought about clearing it, but stopped. After everything it had been through, even that might be too much.

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The rain had long since stopped. The air outside the truck was cool and heavy with moisture, the kind that clung to everything. Trees along the roadside dripped steadily, and shallow puddles caught the faint reflection of a pale, washed-out sky.

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Clara sat turned halfway in her seat, looking down at the small towel-wrapped shape in Owen’s arms. “It doesn’t make sense,” she said quietly. “That box should’ve filled up with mud.” Tom nodded, eyes on the road. “Yeah. The thing was half-buried. No way anything inside should’ve been breathing.”

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Owen looked down at the fragile bundle, barely moving. “Maybe the dog… I don’t know. Maybe it kept the top sealed somehow.” Clara thought for a moment. “The sides were soaked, but the top was almost dry. You noticed that?”

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“Yeah,” Tom said. “We all did.” She nodded slowly, the realization forming as she spoke. “Then it wasn’t just lying there. It was keeping the mud from leaking in. Like a lid.” Tom gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “You think it knew what it was doing?”

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“I don’t know,” Clara murmured. “But whatever it was, that dog’s the only reason this thing’s alive.” No one spoke after that. The only sounds were the hum of the engine and the faint breathing against the towel in Owen’s hands.

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Behind them, the rescued dog let out a low, tired sigh, its chest rising and falling in slow rhythm. The faint glow of the vet’s clinic appeared ahead, a wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze, light from the windows spilling across the soaked ground.

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Tom steered into the gravel lot and parked. Owen was out before the truck had fully stopped, clutching the towel against his chest. The front door burst open before Owen could reach for the handle. Dr. Mallory stepped out, wiping her hands on a towel, her expression shifting from confusion to alarm as she took in the mud-spattered group.

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“What happened?” she asked, eyes darting from Owen’s filthy clothes to the bundle in his arms. “We found it in a box,” he said, voice unsteady. “Under a mudslide. It’s alive, but barely.” She nodded once, brisk and composed. “Inside, quickly.”

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They followed her through a narrow corridor that smelled of disinfectant and damp fur. The overhead lights hummed faintly, a clean contrast to the world they’d just come from. Mallory motioned to a metal table. “Set it here.” Owen laid the towel down. The creature inside shifted weakly as the vet peeled back the corners.

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Mud cracked and flaked away, leaving streaks of pale fur underneath. Its breathing was shallow but steady, barely there, but enough to matter. Mallory worked silently at first. She pulled on gloves, reached for gauze, and began clearing away the thicker clumps of dirt. Every movement was deliberate, careful. “You said it was under a slide?” she asked without looking up.

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Owen nodded. “A dog was lying on top of the box it was in. We thought the dog was stuck, but…” He trailed off, uncertain how to describe what they’d seen. Mallory frowned slightly. “That’s unusual. And lucky.” Tom shifted awkwardly near the doorway. “It’s a miracle that it’s still breathing.”

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“Miracle or sheer instinct,” Mallory murmured. “Either way, it bought this little one time.” The room fell quiet again. Only the hum of the fluorescent light and the faint rasp of her movements filled the space. Clara stood near the sink, twisting her damp hands in her jacket. Owen didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Mallory finally leaned closer to the creature’s face.

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Whatever she saw made her expression soften. She brushed the mud gently away from its snout, revealing a small nose, then the faint pattern of white markings along the muzzle. Two tiny ears folded back against its skull, and its short claws twitched faintly against the towel. “It’s a badger pup,” she said quietly. Clara blinked. “A badger?”

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Mallory nodded, a small smile flickering at the corner of her mouth. “A very young one. Probably only a few weeks old. The claws are what give it away, and the markings. Hard to see through all that mud.” Tom exhaled slowly. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

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Owen leaned closer, watching the small chest rise and fall in uneven rhythm. “Will it make it?” he asked. Mallory didn’t answer right away. She pressed two fingers gently to its side, then glanced up. “It’s stronger than it looks, but it was close. Hypothermia, oxygen deprivation. Another half hour and…” She shook her head. “But it’s holding on.”

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Clara let out a long, shaky breath. “That dog must’ve saved it.” Mallory nodded. “From what you described, I’d say so. The body heat, the way it covered the box, it probably kept the air pocket from collapsing. Instinct’s a powerful thing.” For a long moment, no one spoke. The sound of the badger’s faint, wheezy breaths filled the silence, a rhythm both fragile and defiant.

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Owen leaned against the counter, mud drying on his sleeves. “So what happens now?” he asked. “I’ll keep it here overnight,” Mallory said. “Once it’s stable, animal control can take it. There’s a reserve nearby, they handle orphaned wildlife.” He nodded slowly. “Good. It deserves that much.” Behind them, two of Mallory’s assistants were already tending to the dog.

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They worked quietly, wiping the mud from its coat and wrapping it in warm blankets. The animal’s eyes fluttered open briefly, following the sound from the table before settling again. Mallory glanced over her shoulder with a faint smile. “They’ll take good care of her. Without her, this little one wouldn’t be here.”

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The three of them stood there in quiet agreement. Outside, the wind had died down completely. The night felt clean, emptied of the storm, the way it always does when something survives against the odds. Owen glanced at the small creature again, and let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

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