Miller stared at his dog in disbelief, his face paling as he watched the fearless little scrapper retreat. “What’s gotten into you, Toby?” he whispered, his voice full of genuine confusion. He looked at the three small, silver-grey shapes sitting in a silent, synchronized row on the rug. They looked harmless—small, fluffy, and perfectly still—yet Toby was acting as if he’d just walked into a den of something primeval.
“John, I’ve seen this dog go head-to-head with badgers and never blink. But look at him… he’s terrified.” Miller stepped back toward the door, unable to look away from the kittens’ heavy, unblinking gaze. Even in their weakened state, they commanded the room with an authority that didn’t belong in a farmhouse. “A dog doesn’t act this way around kittens. He’s acting like there’s something in this room that shouldn’t exist down here in the valley. You need that vet here, and you need them now.”