Jack's there and not and the mountain is cold--easy to forget just how cold, how lonesome the camp could get. There's the clip-clop of hooves outside, or maybe it's the banging of metal on...something, or the branches of the trees knocking into each other.

"Fucked up dream," Jack says, like the last few minutes never happened, like he isn't shadowy and blurred around the edges and hard to grab hold of, as if he were nothing more than a thick cloud of smoke.