He nods in gratitude - and no, he would not let anyone near his throat just now - and sets to the task. There is something calming in it, marred only by the need to manoeuvre the blade around the ugly puncture marks at the side of his neck. He pauses near them, eyeing them, feeling nausea begin in the pit of his stomach. They are larger than he had thought yesterday, circular and deep, gaping holes in previously unmarred flesh. And they hurt; more, now he is looking at them.

'I wonder that no one has killed him.'