Walk to the car. Get in.

Stare out the window...

...snap out of it. Pat your pockets for the keys, and freeze-- a red smear in your blurred peripheral vision.

"No." Close your eyes tight. "Don't do this." Snarl, feeling that familiar, patient gaze-- "No, dammit! You're dead. You think an Inuit story's gonna help?!"

(You know he's worried you're losing it. About what could happen to the real Vecchio if you do.)

"You gotta trust me." you mutter. "I can do this. On my own."

Open your eyes.

(You're alone.)

"Thanks, Frase." you say hollowly.

Start the car.

Drive.

[end]