When the Wind Blows by James Patterson

butt.
    My noisy approach sent the fox into increased fear and frenzy. She was terrified, snapping her jaws and drooling from the
     mouth. I saw that the leg was completely engloved. The trap’s teeth were gripping bare bone.
    “It’s okay, girl.”
    I stood below the fox and looked for some way to inject her with the ketamine. There was a nearby ledge on a level with my
     shoulders, but it was obviously too thin and too narrow. I didn’t trust myself to hang on to it and get the needle into her
     leg at the same time.
    The fox’s continual high-pitched whine was driving me crazy. Soon she’d go into shock, and very soon after that she’d die.
    I knew I couldn’t save her by myself.

Chapter 32
    K IT WAS SLUGGING a long, arcing home run high over the famed “Green Monster” wall in Boston’s Fenway Park. His two boys were
     watching from seats along the first-base line. Suddenly he was torn from his baseball heroics, the remnants of sleep.
    There was a loud, insistent banging at the cabin door. He placed his hand on the rifle he kept under the bed, slid it along
     the floorboards.
    “Yeah? Who is it?” he called. He pushed himself to a sitting position so that he could see through the window.
    He parted the curtain and saw Frannie O’Neill with the serious frown she usually wore for his benefit. She always managed
     to look good to him.
    What now? What did she want?
    He stepped into his jeans, zipped his fly, buttoned up. More impatient banging on the door.
Where was a clean shirt? To hell with a shirt.
    “I’m coming.”
    He opened the door, but before he could ask what crime he’d committed Frannie started to speak a blue streak of fast, barely
     intelligible words.
    “I need your help,” she said. “Please. I
really
need you to help, Mr. Harrison.”
    Mr. Harrison? “Sure. No problem. Shoes,” he said, and ducked inside to grab his sneaks.
    He followed her, bare-chested, as she sprinted ahead of him to a rocky gorge a few hundred yards back into the woods. He could
     hardly keep up with her. She could really move on those long legs of hers.
Mr. Harrison was it now?
    “What the—” He stopped in midsentence.
    It took him only a second or two to recognize what it was that was hanging from nasty metal jaws and jangling chains.
    “Oh, Jesus, Frannie.”
    The fox was a sickening sight, and he finally understood why she hated hunters so much, why she had been so mad at him since
     he arrived—with a gun.
    The poor animal’s reddish-brown coat was soaked and spattered with fresh blood. The fur and flesh on its foreleg had been
     stripped forward from elbow to paw by the teeth of the leghold trap. Its breath was coming hard. Its intermittent barking
     was hoarse and weak.
    “I can’t reach her,” Frannie panted. She was out of breath. “I tried it by myself. No use.”
    She looked as if she were going to break down, and Kit felt choked up with the same emotion. What had happened to the young
     fox was cruel and heartbreaking, and it made him angry, too. How could anybody do this to an animal?
    “What do you want me to do? How can I help?”
    She held a syringe clasped tightly in her hand. “I have to get this into her leg.”
    “Okay. I got you.”
    Kit skittered down the steep, muddy slope. He surveyed the gorge from top to bottom. Then he climbed back up.
    He squatted above the fox that was suspended about three feet below the edge. He measured and weighed the animal with his
     eyes. Then he quickly scanned the underbrush for a fallen branch.
    “This could work,” he called to Frannie.
    It was about three feet long and only a couple of inches in diameter.
    She looked perplexed. “What are you doing? What could work?”
    It was easier to demonstrate than to explain. Kit lowered himself until his face and shoulders were hanging over the lip of
     the gully.
    “Please be careful,” he heard her say.
    He brought the stick close to the fox’s mouth. She was spraying foam with every exhaled breath