The boar's eyes reflected the girl's torch light. Its breath steamed, floating up with short, derisive snorts form the bottom of the deep pit she and the octopus dug, weeks earlier.
"Now what?" She asked.
The octopus shrugged in the darkness.
The boar sat on its haunches for a moment, staring at its captors, tusks cocked. Then, it stood; started pawing at the wall of the pit with dirty hooves. It huffed, annoyed.
"We can't drown it --it can swim." The girl said. "Do we keep it alive?"
The octopus shrugged again.
The man sighed. It'd been difficult, writing about his life being ruined, but he'd gotten through it.
The boar and octopus had, together, ruined his life, fighting in his mind for two months while he tried to figure out how the octopus could to pull the boar back into its original universe.
They'd wrestled across his shoulders and, in the end, the octopus had to do what octopods do.
There'd been a strange ritual.
The octopus came to the man while he was driving. Floating, flailing on the windshield at 80 miles an hour on the interstate. They'd nearly crashed.