Only the subtle rise and fall of its chest gave any sign that it was still breathing. Raymond slowed, crouching a few feet away, and slid the tin of peanut butter into the snow. “There you go,” he murmured. “It’s warm inside. And dry.”
The pig’s ears twitched. It didn’t snort or grunt. Just stared. Then—a sound. Not from the pig. A faint, muffled whimper. Raymond stiffened. Another squeak, soft and strained, rose beneath the pig’s body. He leaned slightly to the side, squinting through the wind.