Bulging vines pull painfully as Roland's head snaps around. The rest of his body turns to follow it, putting behind him the hand which has wrapped its small fingers around a broken end of the railing. It must have a good grip, that hand, because the railing sways as Roland moves. It sways in the wind coming up from the endless black beneath, too, wind which pulls the whole rusting structure backward and forward with gusts like the in- and exhalations of some gigantic open mouth. Perhaps the hand has no choice but to have a good grip; perhaps it cannot let go until Roland notices and decides it's time to do so.

He hasn't noticed yet. He's studying the figure. The figure of the new person, whoever this is. The urge to kill is there, waiting, and so a part of his study consists of a search for weaknesses, weapons. But the urge to kill has always been there. He's spent the whole of his adult life getting practice in controlling it.

"All right," he repeats, but slowly, as if the words are part of some foreign sentence. The entire concept of all right is foreign. He's forgotten the phrase, forgotten that people say it.

Nevermind all right.

"Child. What the hell are you doing? You've got no business here!"