The snow had risen fast; his previous footprints had already vanished, erased like he’d never been out here at all. His flashlight beam bounced and swayed as he walked, and finally landed on the motionless lump near the fence.
Still there. Still half-buried. Still watching. The pig hadn’t moved since Raymond left. It looked even weaker now—hunched, shivering, glazed in ice. Snow had piled along its back, clinging to the bristles in rigid ridges.