The officer pulled the vent cover away with a sharp metallic clatter, shining his high-powered flashlight into the dark, dusty duct. “Nothing here,” he muttered, sweeping the beam back and forth. “No fur, no droppings, just a clean pipe.” He turned back to his partner, ready to suggest they call animal control to remove the dog. He was now convinced that Mark was right—Duke had simply snapped. But his partner wasn’t looking at the vent; he was looking at Duke.
The dog had suddenly stopped barking. He was sitting perfectly still, staring at the open hole in the wall with a hollow, haunted expression. “Look at him,” the second officer whispered. “He’s not hunting. He’s shivering.” Mark stood by the crib, his hands over his face, explaining that he didn’t know what to do anymore. “He was trying to break that window to get out, but then he’d turn around and snap at me,” Mark said, gesturing to the cracked glass.
It was then that the second officer noticed a faint, strange sensation—a lightheadedness that made the room feel as though it were spinning.