Blind.
The pitbull adjusted his stance, deliberately blocking the officers’ view again, as if shielding the fragile creature from their light.
“He’s guarding it,” Ethan whispered.
The growl softened, but the dog did not move aside. Snow whipped through the open doorway behind the officers. The house had no heat. The temperature inside felt barely warmer than outside.
The floor around them told a story—shredded insulation pulled from the walls, old curtains dragged down, bits of cardboard and fabric scattered in a rough circle. A nest.
The “tearing something apart” the caller had heard was not an attack.
It was a desperate attempt to build shelter.
Marissa slowly lowered her weapon. “He’s trying to keep it warm.”
The pitbull’s sides rose and fell heavily, exhaustion etched into every line of his body. One paw was bleeding where he had scraped it raw against splintered wood.
Ethan crouched slightly, voice low and steady. “Hey, buddy. We’re not here to hurt you.”
