[As Childermass reaches the landing, the door, Alois is torn between two instincts: cling and cry, begging for safety; and brutal independence. Alois swallows his quivering breaths, lost in his own labyrinthine longings—he wants to be taken care of, but he doesn't want to need anybody. In the end, he doesn't reattach himself to Childermass' arm. He stares hard at the nightmares as ordered (for once not resisting a simple command), standing with straining legs, holding onto the railing with shaking hands. Some of his violence is giving way again to fear. Only some, though. His heart is a push and pull between determined anger and overwhelming anxieties.

Childermass' endeavor, by the way, is one familiar to Alois. He wasn't an expert lock pick as a child, preferred to bust his way in with tiny but furious fists and feet, but he knows a thing or two about being crafty, or at least he did once. It's almost a weird sort of comfort for Alois, and helps that determined anger stay strong: when Alois is reminded of a time when he was a boy called Jim who was willing to fight anybody or anything, he feels like... he feels like maybe he can fight again. So his voice sounds livid when he narrates:] They're very dark. And they are very hungry, too, I can tell you that much. I think they can eat things just by touching them. And I think they will eat anything, never mind the time to savor, but right now you and I are particularly appealing. Don't know why. Suppose that's just our lot, or maybe because we're such lovely flesh and blood. Anyway, here they come, creeping. You had better finish bloody quick, because they're eating and they want to eat us too, all that darkness, the all-consuming kind, and I— and I—

[He funnels in some rickety breaths, not unlike the creaking of a ship.]

I will not be eaten today.