And sandwiched between them—buried in the very center of the pile, wrapped in their heated electric throw (which was now dead) and the down comforter from their bed—was Barnaby.
My dog lifted his head and let out a soft woof.
“Dad!” I screamed, dropping my phone.
Dad blinked, his eyes unfocused. He tried to sit up, but he was stiff. “Son?” he whispered. The sound was like dry leaves scraping together. “Don’t… don’t let the dog out. It’s too cold.”
I scrambled to the thermostat. It was dead. I ran to the kitchen. The fridge was warm.
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