She ended the call and began pacing along the shoulder, gravel crunching beneath her shoes. Every few seconds, she glanced toward the ditch, her nerves raw. Her thoughts tangled into worst-case scenarios, each one darker than the last, each one clawing harder at her chest.
The dog let out a low, broken whimper, the sound shredding through Tina’s composure. He shifted uneasily, circling once before settling back onto the blanket. His body language flickered between aggression and desperation, torn by the weight of what he was guarding.
Tina pressed her palms against her temples, fighting the urge to rush forward. She wanted to rip the blanket back, to end the torment of not knowing. But fear pinned her feet, the dispatcher’s warning echoing: don’t interfere, don’t make it worse.
Minutes crept like hours. The evening air cooled, a chill brushing over her arms, amplifying the urgency. If a baby lay inside, hypothermia could already be creeping in. She wrapped her coat tighter, as though trying to shield the tiny, helpless life from the cold.
The dog whined again, then stilled suddenly. Tina squinted, heart pounding. From beneath the blanket, something shifted. A tiny limb pressed briefly against the fabric before slipping free. A paw, delicate and trembling, claws barely formed. Not human. Not what she expected.
Her breath caught. It was so small, so fragile, her brain scrambled to reconcile it. Had she misheard the cries? Had she spun a nightmare from shadows and nerves? Doubt crept in, gnawing at the certainty that had fueled her fear.
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