There is something wrong with this man. There is something primal in his smile, a fox with razor sharp teeth.

Yet he follows.

He leaves enough distance so that he can run if necessary, his denial telling him that he can make it even with two bad legs. His foot lists on the ground, his boot leaving stretched footprints in the snow. In the crevice, he can fight. He can tear this man's arms out of his sockets and cut ribbons in his chest. He can handle an ambush. He can handle anything.