Here's an excerpt:

. . . we heard Spot’s baying through the woods. A quarter-mile down the road, he trotted past us again—paws pumping, tongue dangling.

Spot detoured after another scent before we stepped onto the serrated steel-bar grating of the bridge where we planned to turn around.

Resting my elbows on the blue railing, I gazed at Deer Creek. Swifts swooped after bugs. Water gurgled. The fragrance of fresh-cut hay drifted from a farm on Jacobs Road across the bridge.

Spot approached the grating, sat at the edge, and whimpered.

“He’s afraid to walk on the bridge,” Ellen said.

Spence tilted his head toward her. “If he’s smart, he won’t.”