Each time the creature flinched, sludge splattered her jeans and smeared her sleeves. She worked methodically: one, two, three strands; shift the glass; four, five, six. The wolf kept its distance but paced in an anxious semicircle, ears swiveling to the rhythm of her cuts.
Finally the last loop snapped. The creature—still nameless, shapeless under the grime—tried to push upright, managed half a step, then collapsed with a thin, painful squeal. Its back legs twitched, useless.