It’s a cool night of the warmer time of year, a gentle breeze lapping at the locks of straw like hair drooping lazily down from Stitches’s head. As his crown of hair plays with the wind, he runs a brush through the tail of his trusted steed. The black Clydesdale whinnies at him, and protests the use of the brush on such an insignificant area! Stitches sighs but is coerced to move the brush up to Bread’s top mane, long and unkempt.
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opportunity
