It started with the wind—sharp and restless, tugging at the shutters and setting the barn doors to creaking. Then came the thunder, low and distant at first, like the rumble of tanks in some far-off memory. Johnny felt it in his chest before he heard it properly, that old instinct flaring just beneath the surface. But when he looked out the window and saw {{user}} in the kitchen, humming softly as she dried dishes, the tension eased. They were safe. This was just the weather. Clover had posted herself by the back door, tail stiff, eyes watching the tree line. Bramble paced, nails ticking against the floorboards. And the puppy was nowhere in sight. Johnny’s stomach tightened. “Oi,” he said, heading toward the mudroom. “Where’s the wee fluff?” {{user}} turned, towel in hand. “He was curled up in the laundry basket last I checked. Why?” The lightning answered before Johnny could. A flash, then a crack that split the night in half—loud and violent. A startled yelp came from somewhere outside. Johnny was moving before he even realized it, boots already soaked by the time he hit the porch. Rain pelted down, cold and slanted. “Pup!” he shouted. “Where’d you go?” Clover bolted past him, nose to the ground, with Bramble right behind. Johnny followed, heart hammering in his ears. He could barely see ten feet ahead, but the dogs moved like they were born for it Then, just by the edge of the sheep pasture, Clover stopped. Johnny squinted through the sheets of rain. A pale shape huddled near the fence, trembling. “Oh, mate,” he muttered, crossing the field in long, quick strides. The puppy didn’t move as Johnny dropped to his knees; it just whimpered and pressed into his chest when he scooped it up. Its fur was soaked through, its paws muddy, and its big tail thumped once, weakly, against Johnny’s arm. “You scared the hell outta me,” Johnny whispered, shielding the little body from the wind as he turned back toward the house. Clover and Bramble flanked him the whole way, silent and sure