Impact rocks the breath from him, then again: Sends Ellis' fist glancing off his jaw. There's blood in his ears, in his teeth, but nothing's cracked loose —

A friend of mine, The yard is quiet. It fucking hurt,

Somewhere above, the first soppy flakes of snow drift down to cap the walls, the grounds; their discarded sleeves. Vance's foot slips. It drives him forward again, lower now, stomping for an instep. Pivoted, an elbow for a hip. Trying to turn him, to tear some of that weight down. Like pulling at a tower stone.

(Pointless. The great grey shadow of her, the damp earth.)