The sky hung heavy, a blanket of gray pressing down on the winding mountain road. A cold wind sliced through the trees, rattling their bare branches, while rain streaked the windshield in relentless, stinging rivulets. John’s headlights barely cut through the mist, and the rhythmic swish of his wipers was the only sound breaking the eerie silence. Two hours of nonstop driving had left him tense, his mind racing about the urgent project waiting back at the office.
Beside him, his German Shepherd, Barbara, lay curled up, her dark fur damp from the earlier rain. Her calm, steady breathing was a quiet anchor amid the storm’s chaos.
Then, out of the mist, a car appeared. Slow. Too slow. Instinctively, John eased off the gas. That’s when he saw it—the rear door of the car creaked open, and a dark bundle flew onto the roadside. The vehicle sped off into the fog as if it had vanished into thin air.
Barbara’s ears pricked, and a low growl rumbled from her throat. John squinted at the bundle. At first, it looked like a discarded trash bag—but the subtle, shivering movements told him otherwise. A faint whimper rose over the sound of the rain.
John jumped out, icy rain stabbing his face, and knelt beside the bundle. The rope binding it was frayed and wet, but he worked quickly. As the blanket fell away, his heart stopped. A tiny boy, no more than two, lay shivering and soaked, lips tinged blue, eyes wide with terror.
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