Maya stood at the window, her reflection pale against the glass. The dog was still out there—soaked, shaking, trapped. Her chest ached. All that effort, and nothing had changed. She had tried. And yet, that leg was still caught. Her cleverness hadn’t been enough. She had failed it.
Her hands clenched at her sides. She’d thought the plan was solid, even a little proud of it—until it unraveled like the toy rabbit in the dog’s mouth. The storm was worsening. And here she was, dry, useless, watching something suffer while doing nothing. It was unbearable.