Snowman hasn't smelled roast meat for so long. Is that why his eyes are watering?
He's shivering now. He's feverish again.
What next? Advance with a strip of bedsheet tied to a stick, waving a white flag? I come in peace. But he doesn't have his bedsheet with him.
Or, I can show you much treasure. But no, he has nothing to trade with them, nor they with him. Nothing except themselves.
They could listen to him, they could hear his tale, he could hear theirs. They at least would understand something of what he's been through.
Or, Get the hell off my turf before I blow you off, as in some old-style Western film. Hands up. Back away. Leave that spraygun. That wouldn't be the end of it though. There are three of them and only one of him. They'd do what he'd do in their place: they'd go away, but they'd lurk, they'd spy. They'd sneak up on him in the dark, conk him on the head with a rock. He'd never know when they might come.
He could finish it now, before they see him, while he still has the strength. While he can still stand up. His foot's like a shoeful of liquid fire. But they haven't done anything bad, not to him. Should he kill them in cold blood? Is he able to? And if he starts killing them and then stops, one of them will kill him first. Naturally.
"What do you want me to do?" he whispers to the empty air.
It's hard to know.
Oh Jimmy, you were so funny.
Don't let me down.
From habit he lifts his watch; it shows him its blank face.
Zero hour, Snowman thinks. Time to go.