Ten Minutes Out

The train was still ten minutes out when Bud lay down on the track. In the summer heat, the acrid smell of tar was almost overwhelming, but the sun on his back felt heavy and comforting. For a moment, a bird's wings blocked the light. Bud closed his eyes. The rails beneath him were beginning to vibrate. Suddenly, he lifted his head, alert to a piercing whistle. It was distant, to his right, but moving closer. He stood up, shook the dust from his fur, and loped away into the woods. His master was calling, and the hunt was on.