So she pressed on, feet slipping on wet shale, heart pounding louder than the surf echoing through the stone corridor. They emerged onto a hidden cove. It was nothing like the open strand she’d left behind.
Debris littered the shore—cracked plastic buoys, frayed ropes, rusted barrels, and blobs of dark sludge that clung to everything in foul patches. A sickly sweet odor rose from the mess. The wolf trotted ahead, nose low, weaving through trash mounds toward the sound of faint whimpering.