Roach cautiously watched you pat the dog, part of him was expecting you to sink your tea into the scruff of its neck. Either way, he kept an eye out on your zombie tendencies.

‘You like the dog?’ He signed in BSL. He took note of how you understood sign language, responding to his distinct motions with a grunt or head nod.

Drool dribbled out from your mouth, as you lethargically leaned down, wiping your face onto the dog’s fur.

Roach furrowed his brows. ‘Do you want to eat the dog?’