His face stung from the gashes of the brambles. His ribs were on fire, his hands pulpy, his clothes ripped, his body slashed. And he had lost him, the rain coming down in a gently cooling drizzle as he lay there splayed out, breathing deeply, holding it, letting it out slowly, breathing deeply again, letting the dead weight of his arms and legs relax with every slow exhale—for the first time he could remember, crying, softly crying.
