Ice

By M. Hendrix

“It’s frozen.”

What is? I can’t help but snidely reply in my thoughts. The small dog we’re huddled around? The small bucket that once held water? The backyard we’re standing in? The heart of the person this backyard belonged to? The world around us?

“Well, put it in the van,” Jeff sighs, standing up from where he’d been examining the small pet. I didn’t know the dog’s name, or who it had belonged to. Whoever had lived here left the small creature chained up when they high-tailed it somewhere else.

That would become my job, finding out who that sick bastard was.

Some days, I wonder if I’m not frozen as well.