The baby hare lay on its side, still in the palm of his hand. He looked for cuts, blood, but other than a nick on its foot, it appeared unharmed. The dog was gentle that way. Cupped in his palm, he pressed his finger against its tiny chest, feeling for a heartbeat. Nothing. That didn’t surprise him though, dulled by work, his fingertips could hardly register his own pulse. He turned the hare over, stroked the tiny white star on its forehead. It nuzzled into the warmth of his palm, alive. He knew better than to get his hopes up. It was too young. A week old, maybe two. Its eyes had yet to open. Put it in a box and it would be cold by morning, dead. Done it dozens of times as a boy. They just don’t survive. But he couldn’t just give it back to the dog. Couldn’t. He covered the little rabbit with his free hand and headed toward the house, the dog following in jumps and circles, anxious to have its find returned. He’d have to get some milk.