The path wound through the high grass, wet with morning dew. Tall blades brushed against their legs, leaving dark stains on the fabric. The air smelled of damp earth and crushed stems, the sharp green scent of things broken open before their time.
The dog moved ahead, sniffing as it went. Its hands pressed into the soil, fingers splaying wide with each step. The knuckles dragged through the mud, leaving shallow furrows that filled with water almost immediately. The joints bent at angles that seemed wrong, too many bends, too much give. The creature paused at the base of a fallen oak and lifted one hand to its nose. The fingers curled inward, the palm pressed flat against its face.
It inhaled.
The man behind it waited patiently. His boots sank into the soft ground, water seeped through the worn leather, cold against his toes. They had been searching for months. A little more would not hurt.
