a falling through

Thanks for starting!!! Keeping things equally vague for similar reasons.

Purpose was her only reprieve in the dark days of her freedom. There was a man to serve, and so she did, and that gave her some joy. Indeed her spirits were high as the two left to scout the lands that lay in their path, and this despite the weight she bore. Soon she would leave them.

"Dogmeat," she began, still staring over the frozen waste, "the beasts here are fell. We are not long." And her death, she knew, was closing in ever swifter on her. As the days passed she grew only colder, and could not remember the last time she had felt comfort. Hunger gnawed at her, bones showing through the thin hairs of her coat. Junkyard Dog had had precious little weight to spare, and that was already gone. If the cold did not take her, hunger would. And if neither proved to be her end, then the wolves may well be.