Arrow Lake every breath of borrowed time is heavy in my chest.

She readily outlined his laziness, his poor attempt to complete the bare minimum, which he really should have anticipated but somehow had failed to. Her words were not barbed; she spoke plainly and to the point, austere for the moment, watching him and directing him. Mesa ducked his head slightly beneath the weight of her attention and drew closer yet again. She wanted it deeper, which would take more effort. She wanted it well placed and covered, which would tired him. His mother's unrelenting list of requirements grew and soon, Mesa was moving to her whims with his ears slanting back.

He uncovered the thinly veiled dead thing and pulled it free from the spot. Then he began to work at the soil, clawing without fervor at first, catching dirt and pulling at it. Eventually the scrape was more of a pit. He did not look up as he went — pushing himself to dig for a little bit longer even though his shoulders were beginning to tire, unused to this style of activity. Then when he was satisfied that the pit was deep (perhaps too deep!) he rebounded to where the dead thing lay discarded, and grasping it with his teeth, gave a hasty toss. The bulk hit the pit and sagged inside.

The boy was panting lightly as he began to cover it over; he kicked the dirt back in to place with his hind feet but found it did not do the trick, so he turned around. Finally the thing was covered, planted more like, and he squatted where he had been standing previously, too tired to counter his mother's diatribe with words or anything at all. He glanced at her once, for confirmation, and after a beat he looked away as if wounded.