"Who are you?"
Then everything is gone and he is alone, the wind whistling around his face, stinging against the grazes covering his arms. The skyscraper of black smoke hurtles towards him, the certainty of death approaching at a speed that doesn't even give fear time to kick in. His lips curl into a smile, and he thinks of the verses that have been his constant these 72 days, and then he's slammed into the tree as the words tumble from his mouth:
"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…"
(Percussion: the striking of one body against another.)