Headlights cut through the trees, throwing long, dancing shadows across the park.

“Bishop, come,” I whispered.

This time, the dog obeyed.

He released his stance and backed away from the bleeding man, his yellow eyes still fixed on them.

He stood by my side, his chest rising and falling with deep, ragged breaths.

My hands were shaking violently as I reached down to touch his wet head.

“We have to go,” I said.

We turned and ran deeper into the dark woods, away from the approaching lights.

The wet branches slapped against my face, cold and stinging.

The mud sucked at my shoes with every step, trying to pull me down.

Behind us, shouting voices echoed through the trees, accompanied by the crashing of underbrush.

We ran until my lungs burned and my legs felt like lead.

Finally, we stopped beneath the shelter of an old stone bridge.

The water of the creek rushed beneath us, swollen and loud from the heavy rain.

I sank to my knees on the cold concrete, trying to catch my breath.

Bishop leaned his heavy, wet body against my side, offering his warmth.