A cord snapped next to her muzzle. She rubbed at the other cords, keeping a cautious eye on Bony Boy. But he was frantically paddling, his back to her.
The other cords slid free.
She stretched her jaws, feeling the pain and stiffness, then bent her head. Her teeth worked at the cords that held her paws.
The wind screamed like a dying pig around them. The canoe bucked, the spray lashed from side to side. Bony Boy urgently scooped the water from around them and threw it back into the storm.
She could do nothing about the wind or water. Instead she bit the cords. It was hard to get a grip — the rocking, swaying boat kept rolling her back and forth and the storm blinded her. Each time the canoe lurched and rolled she was sure she would be swept from the fragile little shell, tumbling helplessly with bound legs into the water.
The cords around her paws snapped.
She tried to move her legs. Nothing happened. For a moment she felt panic. She tried again.
This time they moved, stiff and so painful she whimpered, then glanced at Bony Boy to see if he had heard.
He hadn’t. His back was to her as he heaved and bucketed against the storm.
She tried to stand. At last she realised it wasn’t just the weakness of her legs preventing her from standing. There were more cords about her back, holding her to the canoe. She knew to leave them as they were: her only security now was the bucking canoe and Bony Boy, desperately bailing and paddling. Waves reared about them, capped with foam.
Just for now, she let the cords stay.