Tobin stood at the center of Larkspur Snowbridge Market with his boots set wide on the snowy boards, watching the main lane the way he always did. People were hurrying past with baskets of salt dough and bundles of firewood. Carts creaked. Lanters swayed. The bridge bell hung quiet above them all.
He liked it that way. Calm. Clear. Easy to cross.
But today, the quiet corner near the kennel was full of frozen supply crates instead. A delayed sled had left them there, stacked in a hard little wall of pale wood and ice. And right beside them lay a tired family of sled dogs, curled in the middle of the lane where everyone needed to pass.
One dog lifted its head and thumped its tail once, then dropped it again. Another sighed so deeply its breath made a cloud on the boards. A woman with a tray of warm buns stopped short. A cart behind her had to scrape to a halt.
Tobin rubbed his brass key ring with one thumb. He needed a resting place for the dogs, and he needed the lane clear before the market turned noisy and tangled. But the kennel corner was gone, the dogs would not move on their own, and shoppers were already slowing to stare. Tobin looked from the frozen crates to the tired dogs to the crowd pressing in, and he saw he could not just keep watch anymore. He had to choose what to do first.
What happens next?
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