Wyatt held the leash tight while another man guided the crate door open.
Odin fought them the entire way.
His paws slid on the pavement.
His muzzle struck the edge of the crate once with a dull metal sound.
Connor stood near the open tailgate with both hands visible and his voice low.
He did not crowd the dog.
He did not bark orders.
He did not pretend fear could be cured by volume.
“Easy,” he said.
Odin slammed into the crate when they finally got him inside.
The metal frame shook.
One handler cursed and stepped back.
Wyatt locked the latch and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove.
“You sure about this?” he asked.
Connor looked at the crate.
Inside, Odin was breathing hard through the muzzle.
His amber eyes flashed between every human face, every moving hand, every open space.
“No,” Connor said.
