The dog shivered. Every now and then it struggled. It seemed to Will that the harder he worked to free it, the less he achieved. As the tide came closer, so the stuff in which it was mired was becoming waterlogged. What if it turned to sinking sand? The only difference between sand and sinking sand was the proportion of water. What if Will became trapped as well? He saw himself as he might be, stuck with the dog as the tide came in, lapping, licking, that thick brown water, and he imagined how terrified he would be. In the next moment shame engulfed him; shame that he had considered, even for a moment, consigning the dog to a fate that now frightened him so much.

Then another thought came to Will, this one even worse. What if he couldn’t get the dog out in time? Would he have to stand there and watch the poor creature drown?

The water rose sneakily. It was creeping higher, trying to claim the dog by stealth. Will could feel the change in the temperature of the air at this level, feel the encroaching wetness. Each scoop of wet sludge he pulled away was immediately replaced. Desperate, he half-lay on the ground and reached one hand as far as he could beneath the dog, and with the other he grabbed the loose fur around its neck and he pushed upwards with one hand and pulled with the other. He could feel the dog’s heart beating in its body, banging like a drum against its ribs.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but this is the only way!’ and he pulled, and the mud pulled back, sucking at the fur and bone, sucking at the dog’s life. Will shouted at the sea: ‘Fuck off! You’re not having it!’ He pulled and pushed, gripping the dog’s pelt so tightly he was afraid it might tear, and at last there was a giving in the silt beneath his lower hand, a release and a kind of sigh as the sucking mud fell away and the dog came loose.