"Good," he calls, less for the fact of shoes and more to set himself up to also yell, "just like the tenuous grip on my sanity."

So often challenged, but somehow held together, in Mark's presence. Science is bullshit and god is dead, but at least he has moldy shoes for when he maybe gets back to the ground. "I think some of this is shitty on purpose," he says, stopping where the walkway meets, rounds, and carries away from the trunk. Mark and his shoes are slightly above him now, and he waits for the man to pick his way into view.

One hand clinging to the rail, the other points to the way forward: the walkway suspended between one tree and the next, another hut lower o the trunk than this. "I wonder what there might be to deal with, that they made for such a long way down."