Heather N. bowed her head over the limp sheen body, the fluffy orange fur matted down from the rain, a pool of blood encircling it. She knelt down, weak in the knees. Her tears were hidden by her medium-length brown hair, and the heavy rain that pattered on the the paved road. A Cadilliac was swerved away from the dead thing, crushed like a can.
Dead. Squirrel was dead. Squirrel was the best thing that had ever happened to Heather N., and now he was dead. Even Nate, her oldest brother thought Squirrel was nice dog. No more play fights, no more stolen sausages. No more rapid licking when she got home from school. No more fun. No more freedom. No more.
Six years ago
“Momma! Can I have that dog? Please? He’s so nice!” Heather’s stepmother grumbled something under her breath. Then she said, “No!”