The man tried to hold on, a delicate touch almost like a child's. He released the scream he had been retaining. His fingers attempted to tighten. Spotpal tightened his own grip. He looked for something in the other man's face but everything was gone. He squeezed hard, as if this might bring the man back to him. The wind picked up around him, the air contracting above the cooling ocean. It was too late. He stared down at the mess of pulp and matter.

He felt the responsibility for the pain in which the man had died pressing on him, closing round him like a cage.

He filled his lungs with air.

He screamed into the unperceiving wind.