Bert had, in fact, headed up the little mountain path. Part of him wanted to go out and find the wolves howling in the distance, although whether to shoot them or run with them he wasn't sure. Either way, he was lucid enough to realise that was a bad idea. So. The mountains it was.

He was sitting halfway up the path, chin resting on one knee, tossing pebbles and watching them bounce off the rocks. It was aimless, but that was okay. He felt pretty aimless himself. It wasn't even precisely anger or grief or guilt any more; the feelings inside him had been bubbling together for hours now, mixing into something dark and thick that he couldn't quite pin down. He'd rather have felt anger. Anger could be burnt off, fought through, salved with a bloody nose or bloody fists. This, whatever it was... This, he didn't know how to deal with.

The cold was biting, raising gooseflesh on his bare arms and chest. He had welcomed it at first, a reminder that he was alive and feeling. But over the last hour or so, it had settled into a kind of numb ache which so perfectly mirrored how he felt that he hardly even noticed it any more. Besides, what was the alternative? He'd be damned if he was going to risk dealing with Roland again just now. If he had to look his dinh in the eye, he'd either punch him or burst out crying, and neither seemed particularly productive.

So he stayed right where he was, throwing stones and whistling an off-key rendition of Ease On Down The Road. It was easiest that way.