The sun hasn’t set, but the day seems almost done as charcoal clouds gather in the sky. A rumble of thunder warns of a coming storm.

If I had Wi-Fi at this goddamn cabin, then I would’ve been able to check the weather. And if I had checked the weather, I never would have let Bruce out to wander freely when there’s about to be rain. Trying to dry off a dog that weighs almost twice as much as I do is not a tango I want to dance today.

Only solution: get him back inside before the rain comes.

“Bruce! Don’t make me come looking for you!”

I let him out when I stumbled inside a while back, still in the midst of my sobbing haze. Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t scratch at the door hours ago. As another minute or so passes with no sign of the mastiff, I accept that I can’t just linger on the porch.

Grumbling about poorly trained dogs that don’t listen to commands, I pull on my sneakers and grab his leash. I start my search by circling the yard, looking to see if he just fell asleep and was too passed out to hear me calling.

No sign of a giant tan mound of fur—and Bruce is not an easy target to hide.

Apparently, he decided to go on an adventure in the woods.

The woods mean dirt and twigs and leaves. So many random things I’ll have to scrub him clean of if he gets wet on his jaunt. There’s still time, a slim chance I can find him before the downpour.

Problem is, the forest stretches out in all directions, and I’m not sure what way he went.

I circle around to the backyard again, calling his name as I go, just in case. As I scan the line of trees, I notice a break in the branches. Not a trail exactly, but the grass seems to have been flattened, as if it was stepped on.

While I waffle between trying the not-trail or staying at the cabin, another crack of thunder sounds out like a warning. Or the start of a countdown timer.

“Fifteen minutes. Straight in and straight out,” I mutter to myself.

If I don’t find him, then I’ll just pile an arsenal of towels by the back door.

The scent of pine and damp air surrounds me the moment I step into the forest. I focus on my annoyance because the minute I let it go, worry will set in. Bruce might seem like an unbreakable mammoth, but he’s not immortal.

What if he got lost?

What if he hurt himself?

No. Stop it. He’s just being an ass.

As I push through the undergrowth and duck under low-hanging branches, the not-trail becomes a no-way-in-hell- anyone-could-call-this-a-trail.

“Bruce!”