He's grateful too that she pretends not to notice his crying. What sucks is that, with his hands sticky and his clothes splashed with fungus juice, he can't even wipe his face dry.

That's just a footnote on his list of problems. Though his panic is less wild and jagged now, Wilhelm is far from calm. He eyes the drop from the ledge. In the dark, it's impossible to tell how high up they are. Calculating all those empty meters, he just shrinks farther against the rock wall.

"We'll break our fucking necks," he protests.