Three weeks earlier, Luna had appeared on the bend near Hollow Creek Road, ribs showing beneath a swollen belly. Ava almost drove past her at first. The dog was standing beside the ditch in the rain, trembling but not running, as if she had used up every bit of strength getting there. The shelter had been full. The animal control officer asked if Ava could keep her for “just a few nights.” Ava had agreed, then bought blankets, puppy food, and a secondhand dog bed before the week was over.
Luna was gentle, but restless. She followed Ava from room to room and slept lightly, waking at every noise. Some evenings she stood at the back window, staring toward the fields and the dark line of trees beyond the garden. Ava had assumed it was fear—A stray dog learning that doors could close without trapping her, a pregnant mother trying to feel safe.
But there had been one thing Ava had ignored. Every night, just before dusk, Luna would scratch at the back door and look toward the old potting shed. Not the road. Not the food bowl. Not the warm rug near the stove. The shed. Ava had thought Luna simply wanted a private place to give birth. Now she wondered whether Luna had been listening to something out there long before the storm arrived.