Roch lay dying under his twig and leaf thatched hut, plague afflicted, starving, and parched. Between gasping for breath and praying, he didn’t notice the dog beside him, or feel him licking his wounds, or see the loaf of bread he’d dropped. The hound’s wet nose nudged his side. Roch flinched, coughed and shifted, batting away the dream dog. It was then he saw the bread that saved his life, and the hound that brought it.
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redosue 
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