Blake was stuck near the bottom of the end of the world. Something was wrong with his arm; it was backwards and the skin was grey. Something was wrong with his head; it was sticky and his thoughts kept misfiring, and he was hallucinating. Recent memories peeked from just beyond the rocks that smothered his body. The memories played out in the form of voices that he knew. The sounds of his crew shouting for him and at one another, of cries and oh no’s and Blake, Blake, Blakes. He knew they were just echoes haunting him, probably some trick of his sick and bruised skull, pressing down on an odd section of brain that controlled visions and voices and memory and hope. Only when he started hearing Justine’s crystal blue voice pierce the pounding of his ears did he think that maybe he wasn’t in some sort of rocky purgatory after all. Maybe he would be rescued and he could be carried on a stretcher back to the foreman’s cottage. Maybe once there, Justine would use towels and rubbing alcohol and her long soft hands to heal him. She might kiss his scabbed lips with her crimson ones, she might bring him coffee. She might leave him alone and read a novel in the corner or paint portraits of the women that lived in her imagination while he slept in twilight fog. He might get out from behind the rock.