“Military Wrote Off This K9 — A Navy SEAL Refused to Give Up, and the Outcome Shocked Everyone”
Gunfire echoes through the jagged mountains of Afghanistan. But the loudest sound in Chief Petty Officer Denali Stone’s mind is the silence of a broken dog. Condemned to death by the very military he served. This K9 was labeled a lost cause.
One SEAL decided to risk everything to prove them wrong.
Rain hammered against the corrugated steel roof of the military working dog facility at Joint Expeditionary Base Little Creek. The rhythmic drumming usually offered a sense of calm to the animals housed within, but tonight the air was thick with the scent of adrenaline and fear.
In kennel four, a seventy-pound Belgian Malinois named Rocco was tearing his enclosure apart. His teeth, designed to puncture Kevlar and shatter bone, gnawed frantically at the chain-link gate. Saliva frothed at the corners of his dark muzzle. His eyes, once bright and sharply intelligent, were fully dilated, locked into a permanent state of hypervigilance.
Standing a safe distance from the cage was Chief Petty Officer Denali Stone, a seasoned Navy SEAL with three tours under his belt. Denali recognized the look in the dog’s eyes. It wasn’t malice. It was the haunted, hollow stare of a soldier trapped in a war that had already ended.
“He’s a liability, Chief,” Commander Gregory Walsh stated, his voice clipping through the humid air. Walsh stood with his arms crossed, his dress uniform pristine, sharp, and entirely out of place in the damp kennel. “He bit two handlers this week. Yesterday, he pinned a vet tech to the floor. The medical evaluation board made their decision.”
Beside the commander stood Dr. Sarah Jenkins, the base’s lead veterinarian. She looked exhausted, her eyes tracing the floor rather than looking at the dog. She clutched a manila folder tight against her chest.
“With all due respect, Commander,” Denali said, his voice a low rumble, “Rocco survived an IED blast in Helmand. He lost his handler. Staff Sergeant Tyler Collins bled out in the dirt while this dog stood over him, taking shrapnel to his own flank to protect a dead man. You don’t execute a veteran for having nightmares.”
“He is government property, Stone,” Walsh countered, his tone hardening. “And right now that property is malfunctioning. The psychological evaluation is conclusive. Rocco is exhibiting severe, untreatable PTSD and indiscriminate aggression. He cannot be repurposed. He cannot be adopted out to civilians. He’s a lethal weapon with a broken safety.”
Denali took a slow step closer to the cage. Rocco lunged at the chain link, the metal rattling violently under the impact of the dog’s weight. A deep, guttural snarl vibrated through the concrete floor.
“Look at him,” Walsh said, pointing a rigid finger. “He’s gone. The dog Collins trained died in that blast with him. What’s left is a danger to my men. The euthanasia order is signed. Dr. Jenkins will administer the injection tomorrow morning at 0800 hours.”
“You haven’t given him time,” Denali argued, his jaw clenching. “Standard decompression takes weeks, sometimes months. You shipped him back from a combat zone and shoved him into a concrete box.”
“I don’t have months, Chief,” Walsh snapped. “I have a facility at maximum capacity and a schedule to keep. My decision is final. You’re dismissed.”
Walsh turned on his heel and marched out of the kennel, the heavy metal door slamming shut behind him.
—
Dr. Jenkins lingered for a moment. She looked at Denali, her expression softening with a mixture of pity and regret.
“I’m sorry, Denali,” she whispered. “I tried to advocate for him, but his bite history since coming back—their hands are tied. They won’t risk the liability.”
She placed the manila folder on a small metal desk near the entrance. The bold red letters across the top read: “Unfit for Service. Scheduled Destruction.”
As Dr. Jenkins left, the heavy silence of the kennel rushed back in, broken only by Rocco’s frantic pacing. Denali stood alone in the dim fluorescent light.
He walked right up to the gate of kennel four. Rocco froze, dropping into a defensive crouch, a low growl rumbling in his throat.
“I know, buddy,” Denali murmured softly, crouching down so he was eye-level with the Malinois. “I know the ghosts are loud tonight.”
Denali remembered Staff Sergeant Tyler Collins. He remembered the kid’s infectious laugh, the way he would share his MREs with Rocco before he even took a bite himself. He remembered the radio call that day in Helmand—the frantic screaming, the dust clearing to reveal a crater where the patrol had been.
Rocco had refused to leave Tyler’s body, snapping at the medics who tried to load the sergeant onto the medevac chopper until Denali had intervened, speaking calmly, wrapping a jacket over the dog’s head to carry him away.
Rocco wasn’t aggressive. Rocco was heartbroken.
Denali looked at the euthanasia order sitting on the desk. He thought about the Uniform Code of Military Justice. He thought about his twenty-year career, his pension, his unblemished record. To interfere with a direct order from a commanding officer was insubordination. To remove the dog from the base was theft of government property. It was a court-martial offense. It meant the end of his life as a SEAL.
He looked back at Rocco. The dog had stopped pacing and was staring at Denali. For a fraction of a second, the wild panic in the dog’s eyes parted, revealing a glimpse of the loyal, brilliant K9 that had saved Denali’s own squad twice from hidden explosives.
“0800 in the morning,” Denali whispered to himself.
He stood up, his mind made up. Some orders were wrong. And some lives were worth burning a career to the ground for.
—
At 0200 hours, the base was a ghost town. The storm had intensified, turning the rain into blinding sheets of water that flooded the gutters and obscured the security cameras. It was the kind of weather SEALs thrived in.
Denali killed the headlights of his personal truck, a beat-up Ford F-150, three blocks away from the K9 facility. He sat in the darkness, rain drumming against the windshield, going over the plan in his head. There was a single night watchman on duty at the kennel—Private First Class James Miller, a kid fresh out of boot camp who spent most of his night shifts watching movies on his phone.
Denali slipped out of the truck, dressed entirely in black civilian clothes. He moved through the shadows with practiced silence, avoiding the pools of light cast by the sodium vapor street lamps. He reached the side entrance of the kennel building. He knew the security keypad code. It hadn’t been changed in three months.
4927.
The heavy metal door clicked open. Denali slipped inside.
The air was warm and smelled heavily of bleach and wet fur. The dogs were mostly asleep, though a few raised their heads as he moved silently down the corridor. He stayed low, avoiding the line of sight to the main office where Private Miller was stationed. Through the glass partition, Denali could see the glow of a smartphone illuminating Miller’s face. The kid had his headphones in.
Perfect.
Denali crept toward kennel four. Rocco was awake. He was huddled in the back corner of his cage, shivering despite the warmth of the building. The moment he saw Denali’s silhouette, the dog tensed, preparing to strike.
Denali didn’t open the cage immediately. He knelt down, pulling something from his pocket. It was an old, frayed tactical glove. It had belonged to Tyler Collins. Denali had kept it after packing up the kid’s locker.
He pressed the glove flat against the chain link.
Rocco’s ears twitched. His nose worked the air, pulling in the scent. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the dog crawled forward, his belly pressing against the concrete. He reached the gate and pressed his wet nose against the wire, inhaling deeply.
A soft, high-pitched whine escaped his throat.
“I’ve got you, buddy,” Denali whispered. “But you have to trust me. We have to be ghosts.”
Denali slowly unlatched the heavy sliding bolt. The gate swung open with a faint squeak. Rocco didn’t lunge. He stood up, trembling, his eyes darting toward the hallway. Denali slipped a heavy-duty nylon slip lead over Rocco’s head, tightening it just enough to maintain control.
“Heel,” Denali commanded in a bare whisper.
For a terrifying second, Rocco resisted, pulling backward. The metal tag on his collar clinked against the chain link.
In the office, Private Miller looked up. He pulled one headphone out, squinting into the dim corridor.
Denali froze, holding his breath, pressing his back against the cinder block wall. Rocco, sensing the sudden tension, stood perfectly still—his military training temporarily overriding his panic.
Miller stared down the hall for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he shrugged, put his headphone back in, and returned to his screen.
Denali let out a slow, silent breath. He tapped his leg twice.
Rocco moved.
—
They slipped out the side door into the howling storm. The rain instantly soaked them both. Denali broke into a jog, keeping Rocco tight against his left leg. The dog didn’t fight him. The sensory overload of the storm seemed to keep the Malinois focused on the man beside him.
They reached the truck. Denali opened the passenger door, and Rocco leaped inside without hesitation, curling into a tight ball on the floorboards. Denali jumped into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and kept the headlights off until they were miles off the base, merging onto the interstate.
As the digital clock on the dashboard clicked to 0315, reality washed over Denali.
He had done it. He had stolen a military working dog. He was officially AWOL. And he was committing a felony under federal law.
—
By 0805, the silence of the truck cab was shattered by Denali’s encrypted cell phone vibrating violently in the cup holder. He glanced at the screen. Commander Walsh.
Denali ignored it.
Five minutes later, it rang again. Then a text message came through: *Stone. Kennel four is empty. Return to base immediately. This is your only warning.*
Denali rolled down his window, took the military-issued phone, and tossed it out onto the highway. It shattered into pieces against the asphalt behind them.
“Well, Rocco,” Denali said, his voice raspy from exhaustion. He glanced down at the dog, who was now resting his head on the passenger seat, watching the rain streak across the window. “It’s just you and me now. And we’ve got a lot of work to do before they find us.”
He drove deep into the Shenandoah Valley, aiming for an off-the-grid cabin owned by a retired Navy buddy who was currently out of the country. It was isolated, surrounded by miles of dense forest—the perfect place to hide and the perfect place to see if a broken dog could be put back together.
—
The first three days at the cabin were a nightmare.
Rocco was erratic. The absence of the rigid military structure, combined with the lingering trauma, left the dog violently unpredictable. If a branch snapped outside, Rocco would hurl himself against the cabin doors, barking furiously. If Denali moved too quickly, the dog would bare his teeth, backing into corners.
Denali slept on the floor in the living room, refusing to use a bed, keeping himself on Rocco’s level. He hand-fed the dog every single piece of kibble, speaking in low, rhythmic tones. He bore the brunt of Rocco’s panic attacks, taking a nasty bite to his forearm on day four when he accidentally dropped a metal frying pan.
Denali didn’t yell. He didn’t strike the dog. He simply wrapped his bleeding arm in a towel, sat on the floor, and waited until Rocco stopped shaking.
The turning point came on the seventh day.
Denali was chopping firewood behind the cabin. The rhythmic *thwack* of the axe was loud, but Rocco was lying on the porch, watching him intently. The dog’s ears were perked, his body relaxed. It was the calmest Denali had seen him since before the deployment.
Suddenly, a massive brown bear, drawn by the smell of the food in the cabin’s trash, emerged from the treeline. It lumbered toward the porch, letting out a low, territorial huff.
Denali was thirty yards away, armed only with a splitting maul.
“Rocco, stay!” Denali shouted, rushing forward to place himself between the dog and the bear.
But Rocco didn’t stay. He didn’t cower, and he didn’t panic. The training kicked in—but this time it wasn’t driven by fear. It was driven by duty.
Rocco vaulted off the porch, a seventy-pound missile of muscle and teeth, charging directly at the bear. He didn’t bite. He used tactical perimeter defense—barking ferociously, darting in and out, snapping at the bear’s heels and driving it back toward the woods.
The bear, startled by the sheer ferocity of the Malinois, turned and crashed back into the underbrush, retreating up the mountain.
Rocco stopped at the edge of the treeline. He stood tall, his chest heaving, watching the woods to ensure the threat was gone. Then he turned and trotted back to Denali.
He sat perfectly at Denali’s left heel, looking up at him, tail giving a slow, tentative wag.
Denali dropped the axe. He fell to his knees in the dirt, wrapping his arms around the dog’s thick neck. Rocco let out a soft huff and leaned his weight against Denali’s chest, licking the sweat from the SEAL’s jaw.
The broken soldier was still in there. The hero was still alive.
—
But as the sun began to set behind the mountains, the distant rhythmic thumping of a helicopter echoed through the valley. It wasn’t a commercial chopper. It was a military Blackhawk, and it was flying low, conducting grid searches.
Commander Walsh hadn’t just filed charges. He had initiated a manhunt.
The real fight to save Rocco had only just begun.
Rotor wash battered the pines surrounding the cabin, sending a blizzard of needles and dead leaves into the darkening sky. Inside the small wooden structure, the noise was deafening. Denali Stone knew immediately that his time had run out.
He grabbed his tactical jacket, sliding a heavy leather muzzle off the kitchen counter. He didn’t need it for safety—Rocco had proven his stability. But he needed it for optics. He had to show the military police that the dog was under total control.
“Rocco, front,” Denali commanded, his voice slicing through the mechanical roar outside.
Rocco trotted over, sitting sharply in front of the SEAL. The dog’s ears were pinned back against the noise, but his eyes were entirely focused on his handler. He didn’t pace. He didn’t growl.
Denali slipped the muzzle over the Malinois’s snout and fastened the heavy leather strap behind his ears. Next came a thick nylon harness with a sturdy reinforced handle.
Blinding white light suddenly flooded through the front windows, casting long, frantic shadows across the floorboards. The helicopter’s searchlight had locked onto the cabin. Seconds later, the crunch of heavy tires on gravel signaled the arrival of ground units.
“Denali Stone! This is the Naval Criminal Investigative Service!” A voice boomed over a megaphone, distorted and authoritative. “Come out with your hands empty and visible. Secure the animal before exiting.”
Denali took a deep breath. He knelt down, pressing his forehead against Rocco’s.
“Hold the line, buddy,” he whispered. “Whatever happens out there, you stay with me. Do not engage.”
—
Denali pushed the heavy wooden front door open.
The yard was a chaotic theater of flashing red and blue lights. Four armored SUVs were parked in a half-circle, blocking the only road down the mountain. At least a dozen armed MPs stood behind open doors, their M4 rifles raised and trained directly on the porch.
Standing in the center of the blockade, wearing a tactical vest over his uniform, was Commander Gregory Walsh. Beside him, looking entirely out of her depth, was Dr. Sarah Jenkins.
“Step off the porch, Chief,” Special Agent Richard Bowman yelled, keeping his sidearm leveled. “Keep your hands up.”
Denali raised his empty hands, holding the short leather leash loosely in his left palm. He stepped down the wooden stairs. Rocco moved with him, perfectly synchronized, his shoulder pressing lightly against Denali’s left thigh in a textbook tactical heel.
“Take the dog,” Walsh ordered loudly, motioning to a pair of MPs holding heavy capture poles with wire loops. “If he aggressively lunges, you are authorized to use lethal force. Put him down.”
“Stand down!” Denali roared, his voice cutting through the hum of the idling engines and the distant thumping of the helicopter. “Lower your weapons! He is not a threat!”
The MPs hesitated, their eyes darting between Commander Walsh and the heavily muscled Malinois. Rocco didn’t flinch. Despite the blinding lights, the shouting men, and the dozen rifles pointed at his chest, the dog remained seated at Denali’s side. He didn’t bark. He didn’t show his teeth.
He exhibited the absolute, unshakable discipline of a tier-one military working dog.
Dr. Jenkins pushed past Agent Bowman, her eyes wide with disbelief. She had seen this dog just over a week ago—thrashing against a chain-link fence, completely lost to his trauma. Now, looking at the calm, focused animal sitting in the mud, she realized Denali had been right all along.
“Commander, look at him,” Dr. Jenkins urged, pointing at Rocco. “He’s entirely submissive to his handler. There is no active aggression.”
“He’s a ticking time bomb, Doctor,” Walsh snapped. “Stone, release the leash.”
Denali locked eyes with Walsh. “I surrender myself into custody, Commander. But Dr. Jenkins takes the dog. Nobody with a weapon approaches him, or you will trigger a defensive response.”
Walsh ground his teeth, nodding curtly to the veterinarian. Dr. Jenkins walked slowly toward Denali, her hands open and visible. Rocco watched her approach, his muscles tense, but a sharp double-tap from Denali’s fingers against his flank kept him grounded.
Jenkins reached out gently, taking the leather leash from Denali’s hand. “I’ve got him, Denali,” she whispered softly. “I’ll keep him safe.”
“Good boy, Rocco,” Denali said, his voice cracking slightly. “Stand down.”
As Denali stepped away, two MPs rushed forward, slamming him against the hood of an SUV and violently locking heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists.
Rocco let out a sharp, distressed whine, his front paws lifting off the ground as if to intervene.
“Rocco, no!” Denali shouted over his shoulder. “Sitz!”
Instantly, Rocco’s paws hit the dirt. He sat. He watched as they shoved his savior into the back of an armored vehicle, his dark eyes tracking the taillights until they disappeared down the winding mountain road.
—
Handcuffs clinked heavily against the polished oak table inside the stark, intimidating courtroom at Naval Station Norfolk.
Chief Petty Officer Denali Stone sat in his dress uniform, stripped of his standard military bearing by the exhaustion etched deeply into his face. It had been thirty days since the arrest in the Shenandoah Valley. Thirty days in the brig, entirely isolated from the outside world, not knowing if Rocco had already been quietly euthanized.
Beside him sat his defense attorney, Jonathan Caldwell, a sharp-featured former JAG officer who had taken Denali’s case pro bono after catching wind of the stolen K9. Across the aisle, the prosecution was relentless. They had spent the entire morning laying out a damning timeline: the theft, the evasion, the destruction of government property, the blatant insubordination.
Commander Walsh had taken the stand, testifying that Denali’s actions not only endangered civilians but completely undermined military authority.
“The facts are indisputable, Your Honor,” the lead prosecutor stated, pacing before the judge’s bench. “Chief Stone abandoned his post, stole highly dangerous government property slated for destruction, and fled. We ask for the maximum penalty—dishonorable discharge, three years in Leavenworth, and the immediate execution of the destruction order for the K9 in question.”
Judge Robert Campbell, a stern, white-haired veteran of the bench, looked down at Denali. “Does the defense have anything further to add before I render my decision?”
Caldwell stood up, adjusting his suit jacket. “We do, Your Honor. The defense calls its final witness. Or rather, we wish to introduce Defense Exhibit A, followed by expert testimony.”
Judge Campbell nodded. “Proceed, Mr. Caldwell.”
—
Caldwell walked to the evidence monitor, facing the judge and the gallery. He inserted a small SD card into the console.
“Your Honor, when Chief Stone fled, he sought refuge at a cabin owned by retired SEAL Arthur Mitchell. Unbeknownst to my client, Mr. Mitchell had motion-activated trail cameras installed around the perimeter of his property for security.”
He pressed play on the remote.
The courtroom screens flickered to life, displaying crisp, high-definition black-and-white footage of the cabin’s backyard. The timestamp read: “Day Seven of Denali’s Evasion.”
The video showed Denali chopping wood. Then the massive brown bear breached the treeline. Gasps echoed softly through the gallery as the beast charged the porch. They watched Denali step in front of the dog. They watched Rocco launch himself forward.
But Caldwell paused the video right as Rocco engaged the bear.
“Commander Walsh testified that this animal is indiscriminately aggressive—a broken weapon that attacks blindly. I ask the court to watch the K9’s behavior carefully.”
Caldwell hit play.
Rocco did not blindly attack. The courtroom watched in awe as the Malinois used precise tactical spacing. He flanked the bear, barking to create a sonic barrier, driving the predator back without once engaging in a reckless lethal bite.
And then the most crucial moment played out. The bear retreated, and Rocco immediately broke his pursuit, returning to Denali’s side and dropping into a perfect heel position.
Caldwell turned off the screen and faced the judge. “That is not a broken weapon, Your Honor. That is a highly trained soldier executing perimeter defense and demonstrating flawless recall under extreme stress.”
Before the prosecutor could object, Caldwell turned toward the heavy double doors at the back of the courtroom.
“The defense calls Dr. Sarah Jenkins.”
The doors opened. Dr. Jenkins walked in, wearing her formal uniform—and walking calmly beside her, unmuzzled, on a slack leash, was Rocco.
The prosecutor jumped to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor! That animal is a safety hazard!”
“Overruled,” Judge Campbell said, leaning forward, his eyes locked on the dog.
Rocco walked down the center aisle of the courtroom. He ignored the gasps, the shifting bodies, the stern faces. He stopped at the defense table, immediately recognizing the scent. He looked up at Denali, his tail giving two slow, heavy thumps against the wooden floor.
Denali squeezed his eyes shut, his chest heaving as he fought back a wave of emotion.
—
“Dr. Jenkins,” Caldwell began, “can you explain the medical status of this dog?”
Dr. Jenkins took the stand, keeping Rocco’s leash in hand. The dog lay down at her feet, resting his chin on his paws.
“Following Chief Stone’s arrest, I retained custody of Rocco for a secondary, extended evaluation. Commander Walsh’s initial assessment was fundamentally flawed. Rocco was suffering from severe, acute trauma related to the explosive death of his handler. He was plunged into a high-stress kennel environment without proper decompression.”
She looked at Denali, then at the judge.
“Chief Stone did what the military refused to do. He gave the dog time, patience, and leadership. Rocco has not exhibited a single sign of aggression in the past thirty days. He is fully rehabilitated. Executing him would not just be a waste of a valuable asset—it would be a profound moral failure.”
Silence hung heavy in the courtroom.
Judge Campbell stared at the dog, then looked at the prosecutor, and finally rested his gaze on Denali.
“Chief Stone,” the judge said, his voice low and rumbling. “Stand up.”
Denali rose, his hands still cuffed in front of him.
“What you did was illegal,” Judge Campbell stated flatly. “You broke the chain of command. You stole property. You forced the Navy to expend vast resources to hunt you down. I cannot simply ignore the Uniform Code of Military Justice because you acted out of compassion.”
Denali swallowed hard. “I understand, Your Honor. I accept whatever punishment you deem necessary. I only ask that the dog be spared.”
Judge Campbell picked up his gavel.
“The charges of theft and AWOL will stand. However, given your impeccable twenty-year service record and the undeniable evidence of the animal’s rehabilitation presented today, I am commuting your sentence. You will not see Leavenworth. Instead, you will be stripped of your rank and processed for an immediate administrative discharge under other than honorable conditions. Your career in the Navy is over.”
The judge paused, looking down at the paperwork before him. He pulled a pen from his pocket and drew a thick black line across the euthanasia order.
“As for the K9,” Judge Campbell continued, “the medical evaluation board’s order is officially overturned. The dog is retired from active duty. Given your sudden transition to civilian life, Mr. Stone, it seems you have a vacancy for a companion. Rocco is remanded into your permanent custody, effective immediately.”
The gavel slammed down.
“Court is adjourned.”
—
Denali collapsed back into his chair as the cuffs were finally unlocked by a bailiff. Before he could even rub the feeling back into his wrists, Rocco was there. The dog shoved his massive head under Denali’s arm, whining softly, burying his face into the man’s chest.
Denali wrapped his arms tightly around the Malinois, burying his face in the dog’s dark fur, the tears finally falling free.
The military had taken his career, his rank, and his pension. But sitting there on the courtroom floor, holding the dog he had risked everything to save, Denali Stone knew he had walked away with the only thing that truly mattered.
They left the courthouse together. No ceremony. No fanfare. Just a broken SEAL and a condemned K9, walking into the Virginia afternoon, their futures uncertain but their bond unbreakable.
—
The years that followed were not easy.
Denali struggled with the loss of his identity. The Navy had been his life since he was eighteen years old. Without it, he felt untethered, adrift. There were dark nights when the ghosts of his own deployments rose up to meet him—memories he had buried, faces he had tried to forget.
But Rocco was there. Always. The dog who had once been labeled too dangerous to live became Denali’s anchor. He would wake Denali from nightmares with a cold nose pressed against his cheek. He would lean against him during the long, quiet hours when the weight of the past felt unbearable.
They healed together. Slowly. Imperfectly. But together.
Denali found work as a contractor, training K9s for private security firms. Rocco became his demo dog—the living proof that trauma did not have to be a death sentence. Veterans came from all over to work with them, soldiers and Marines and sailors who had seen too much and come home carrying invisible wounds.
Denali would sit with them in the training yard, Rocco at his side, and tell the story. Not the courtroom drama. Not the manhunt. The real story.
*This dog was broken. They wanted to kill him. But he wasn’t broken because he was dangerous. He was broken because he had loved and lost. And he just needed someone to remind him that love was still possible.*
Rocco lived another seven years. He died quietly in his sleep, curled up at the foot of Denali’s bed, his gray muzzle resting on his paws. Denali buried him under the old oak tree behind the cabin where the bear had come—the place where Rocco had proven, once and for all, that the hero was still inside.
He still visits that tree. Every year, on the anniversary of the day he stole a condemned dog and changed both their lives forever.
Some bonds are stronger than regulations. Some loyalties transcend orders.
Rocco had not been a liability. He had been a soldier. A survivor. A warrior who needed someone to believe in him when everyone else had given up.
Denali Stone risked everything—his career, his freedom, his future—to be that someone.
And in the end, he would tell you, he was the one who was saved.
