Wheeling Gull Isle derrida

Perdition didn't think it had noticed him, and he wasn't sure whether to feel concerned or relieved... He continued to grimace, his face screwed up into something ugly, and he tried to think of what to do. He had half a mind to turn and walk away, to let mother nature deal with this creature who seemed so close to death. But... But it--she--also smelled like Bartholomew.

He sighed--and regretted having to breathe, for in breathing, took in the smell of her yet again. And then he cleared his throat, still unwilling to speak, half hoping she wouldn't hear. What if he spoke and the woman collapsed into decay at the sound of his voice? What if he spoke and she asked something of him? He was hardly better off than she was, and anything she might need would be better given by someone other than him.