He shuffled forward over the cold stone floor of the little cave, the thick, dead air a solid thing, a wall that pressed him back, back, back.
But the light grew larger, expanding like a balloon, and suddenly there was a skittering of dog-paws over stone and a joyous, frantic barking.
"That's right, Sandy, go ahead. Breathe that air, that fresh air!"
Martin staggered once, his lean, tall body thudding against sharp rock in the side of the cave. Then a draft of air blew cool and fresh into his face, and a strength returned to him.
Abruptly, he was at the source of the light, at the cave's entrance, a hole barely large enough for him to squeeze through. The blinding light of day fell upon him like a gigantic, crashing sea wave. He closed his aching eyes and fell to the side of the rock-strewn hill, sucking the clean sweet air deep into his lungs.
At length he sat up, holding the pup in his arms. "Two days in that hole of hell," he murmured, "and it's all your fault. A month old, and you have to start exploring caves."
He cocked his head. "Still, I guess it's partly my fault. After all, I got lost, too."
Sandy, a black and white fox terrier, barked impatiently.
"Okay, Sandy, okay. We'll go home."