He raked the snow off his jacket and unwrapped Tip, to put him inside his shirt next to his bare skin. Tip’s paws were like ice and he was shivering violently, the first symptom of the pneumonia that killed mockers so quickly.

Tip coughed, a wrenching, rattling little sound, and whimpered, “Hurt⁠—hurt⁠—”

“I know,” he said. “Your lungs hurt⁠—damn it to hell, I wish I could have let you go home with Steve.”

He put on the cold jacket and went down the hill. There was nothing with which he could make a fire⁠—only the short half-green grass, already buried under the snow. He turned south at the bottom of the hill, determining the direction by the wind, and began the stubborn march southward that could have but one ending.

He walked until his cold-numbed legs would carry him no farther. The snow was warm when he fell for the last time; warm and soft as it drifted over him, and his mind was clouded with a pleasant drowsiness.

This isn’t so bad , he thought, and there was something like surprise through the drowsiness. I can’t regret doing what I had to do⁠—doing it the best I could.⁠ ⁠…

Tip was no longer coughing and the thought of Tip was the only one that was tinged with regret: I hope he wasn’t still hurting when he died.

He felt Tip still very feebly against his chest then, and he did not know if it was his imagination or if in that last dreamlike state it was Tip’s thought that came to him; warm and close and reassuring him:

No hurt no cold now⁠—all right now⁠—we sleep now.⁠ ⁠…