Then the cry came again.
Weaker.
Not a cat.
Not an adult.
Rhett’s jaw tightened. He rolled off the throttle. Snow crunched under his boots as he lowered the kickstand. The engine idled loudly for a moment, like it was protesting the decision.
“Don’t do this,” he muttered to himself.
But he killed the engine anyway.
Silence fell instantly, thick and heavy.
The cry drifted again, barely audible.
Rhett followed it toward the sycamore tree. Each step felt wrong, like he was walking into something that would change him in ways he didn’t want. The wind whipped his leather jacket as he rounded the trunk—and froze.
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