HIM: _[in the half-murk, as HIM and ME are clambering their things together]_ Listen. We need to get you out of here. I don’t like seeing you in so much pain. ME: _[almost smiling]_ But where do we go from here? HIM: This cave is not high up enough; it’s too shallow, too easily found, too uncovered in mud. I know a place where we can go—but it’s going to be cold for a while. ME: Shit, let’s go. Anything’s better _[though he is hardly yet convinced]_ than sitting here like this. _HIM shoulders both their bags [ME almost smiles again but figures he’d better not] and they begin to climb._ ME: What will we do when we get there? HIM: I will write more bad poetry while you get well. It will pass the time, anyway. _But ME is not really listening now, at least not to the words, because just then he knows he really loves HIM. ME listens to the bass, the shuddering boom of slippery elms, the disappearing of the tree line, the cedars which alone follow them the last few steps, and then finally the rocks and chips and particles of high, clear sun at the top of the mountain. It’s cold. They’re going to need jackets. ME smiles._