a falling through

He swung his broad head to her to butt her gently, his anguish-laden gaze falling to the ground. In a short period of time they had been transformed from strangers into comrades -- not just he and Junkyard Dog, but all of them. They shared the same fate -- they shared the same sorrow -- and nothing in the world was so binding a coalition as the passel of grief.

Yet all the same, he remained silent -- morosely he deliberated her words. He could not deliver her the death she deserved -- nor would he have any part in any suicide she attempted. With a low growl he looked away. "Good dog." The male rejoined, his voice soft -- though somewhere in his tone was the lancing timbre of irony.