The screen lit up through the thin fabric, casting a pale blue glow on the wet ground.

The man with the gun stepped closer, his boots squelching in the deep mud.

“Drop the phone,” he said.

His voice was raspy, muffled by the damp wool of a dark mask.

I didn’t move my hand toward my pocket.

My fingers remained locked on Bishop’s collar, my knuckles white.

The dog let out a sound that wasn’t a growl, but a low, vibrating hum deep in his chest.

“I said drop it,” the man repeated, raising the cold barrel of the pistol.

The blue light from my pocket faded, then started to pulse again with another incoming call.

Another flashlight flickered through the dripping trees to my left.

“Is that her?” a second voice called out from the shadows.

“Yeah,” the first man replied, keeping his eyes locked on me. “And she brought the dead girl’s dog.”

The second man walked into the small clearing, wiping rain from his forehead with the back of a dirty glove.

He carried a heavy iron crowbar, the metal dull and scratched.