Dimmock woke up three hours later, spluttering and dizzy. He threw up a couple times; once on a tree, and once, to my utter disgust, on me.
"Dimmock, you bloody idiot, can't you do that somewhere else?"
"Not really, freak."
"Don't call me freak, or I'll thwack you so hard you'll be concussed. Again."
He laughed, the last of his puke splattering on the ground. Disgusting.
"What are you even doing here, Dimmock?"
"I was looking for the dog." He said. I raised an eyebrow. "Tell anyone this and I'll kill you- I want to be a DI, when I'm older." Greg and I exchanged a glance.
"You do realize that it's a wild goose chase? Besides, you didn't believe us when we told everyone."
"Maybe. Maybe not."
"We're looking for it too- well, we were, but we...decided against it."
"Why? Too scared?"
"No, it's just...not worth it."
"Suit yourselves. I'm gonna find it. And when I do, you'll be sorry."
The five of us sat under the mud bank until the sun rose, which wasn't until about ten in the morning, with it being winter. We were exhausted, and Dimmock wouldn't stop pestering me and Molly until John punched him in the face, breaking his nose. I had to suppress a grin, although Greg and John didn't bother. Eventually John's medically-trained conscience bugged him too much and he showed Dimmock how to hold his head so that the blood would clot, but he was still grinning while he did it. Dimmock just looked miserable the whole ten or so hours we were stuck in the woods, especially in the five hours when his nose was broken, although it stopped him from talking, which made me and everyone else a lot less miserable.
Eventually, as the light broke the foliage that was still clinging to the winter trees, we got up and tried to find a way back up the bank. We walked until we found a steep hill that brought us round to the top of the mud bank and in the direction of camp. We arrived at about one in the afternoon, freezing, extremely tired and worn out. Dimmock walked away from us to his friends, who hand't came to the woods with him, and we collapsed in our tent, Greg grabbing a bag of fudge and emptying it into his stomach.
"Fudge therapy?" I joked. Greg laughed weakly. This was the third day of the trip; we had four days to solve the possible-murder.