Marcus poured out his story in breathless fragments: hidden criminals, raccoon thefts, and, above all else, his stolen puppy. The man introduced himself as Mr. Thompson, brows furrowing at each alarming detail. Without hesitation, he gestured for Marcus to climb into the passenger seat.
They sped down a winding road until Mr. Thompson’s bait shop appeared, its wooden sign swaying in the humid breeze. Inside, battered walls and the odor of brine gave Marcus a sense of gritty refuge. Mr. Thompson handed him a phone, urging him to call the police immediately.