Pick's head was swimming, and he held tight to his shovel to keep from falling over as his mind tried to filter through the old man's answers. He felt sick, horribly so, and the pain in his ribs had flared up incredibly. With an alarmed gasp Pick lost his grip and fell to his knees, one had clutching his chest to try and help with the stabbing ache beside his heart. 

[i]"You were nothing when you came with us. Nobody'll know yer gone. Why share?"[/i]

The words echo'd harshly in the back of Pick's mind, like the claws of some creature which delighted in slowly ripping apart his skull. The old man's words were only distant now, but one thing was able to work it's way through the echo of faded memories; "You managed to die."

With those words Pick's vision shifted to flow with the imperfect memory that had only now begun to plague him. [i]He was in another cave, alone, and down on the ground. The ache in his ribs had dulled, and he could only watch through his own eyes as the image of blood pooling beneath him caught the edge of his blurred vision. He could feel it coming from his mouth, leaking slowly onto the cold, almost frost bitten stone- and in the distance the shrill echo of someone whistling grew quieter and quieter. It was a joyful tune, one he recognized but was unable to properly remember, and as the sound was lost so was all warmth Pick could feel. [/i]

His vision returned to him, and Pick found he was still on his knees and coughing blood. It was a small amount, but the little flecks of red now spattered onto the grey sand told him all he needed to know. Whoever the old man was, he was right: Pick had died, or rather had been killed. Only able to wish he could ignore the aching in his ribs now, Pick straightened his back and looked behind him as for the first time he recognized the source of his pain. The rusted metal tool was dug in nearly all the way to the handle, angled downward to pierce what he could feel was his lung. There was no blood that he could see, but Pick grimaced at the thought of how much there must have been when it happened. 

"Come, I'll do what I can to explain," Pick then heard the old man call out, he having turned away and begun to walk again. Watching as he began shuffling away, Pick's mind began to return to the here and now while his subconscious tried to sort out all that it could. "I died," Pick managed to mutter as he began to stand, using his shovel to steady himself. Whether what he'd just said was more an admittance or statement remained unclear to even Pick himself, though to him it couldn't mater a whole lot either way. So, for the time being shocked into thoughtful silence, Pick pulled his shovel from the earth and began walking after the old man, not wanting to ask any more questions for now. Regardless of what happened next all Pick could hope for was to avoid being alone in this confusion, lest it destroy him when more questions returned to plague him.