Titan’s muscles tightened beneath my hands.
The leaves trembled.
Then came the sound.
Heavy.
Dry.
Rhythmic.
Rattle.
Rattle.
Rattle.
The girl’s mother froze.
And beside her daughter’s face, something began rising from beneath the dead leaves. 👇
The head rose first.
Broad. Angular. Dark scales catching the weak winter light between the leaves.
Then the rattle sounded again.
The girl’s mother stopped clawing at my jacket.
The man holding the branch lowered it an inch.
Titan did not move.
His front paws remained across the child’s shoulders, his body angled so that his own ribs were between her face and the snake.
My hand was still locked around his tactical collar.
Seconds earlier, I had shouted the words I would hear in my sleep for months.
Shoot my K9.
I had meant them.
I had believed my partner was attacking a child, and if a gun had been closer than my hands, Titan might already have been dead because I gave the order.
Now I saw what he saw.
“Nobody move,” I said.
My voice barely sounded like mine.
The little girl sobbed beneath him.
“Mommy.”
“I’m right here, baby.”
Her mother tried to lean forward.
