The first real threat appeared one evening near the fence line. A lean dog moved unsteadily along the edge of the property, its ribs showing, its gait uneven. Vanessa could not tell if it was sick, rabid, feral, or simply desperate.
Betty stopped walking. She did not run back toward the house or call out. She froze where she stood, her hands curling inward, her breath shallow but controlled. A scream seemed to be stuck at her lips.