"This is the end," said Gravor Stilton to himself. Though he knew it was true, he had to say it aloud to force himself into recognition. Death was something that happened to other people. He was still relatively young, though old enough that he should start slowing down and taking fewer risks -- not, for example, trying to scale the side of a deep ravine instead of taking the safe, albeit longer, path that snaked around the hillside and back down a smaller canyon to the forest far below. Yet there he was, flat against a gritty sandstone incline, inching inevitably as the soft rock gave way beneath him in small bursts toward a sheer drop that would at best kill him instantly, at worst leave him broken on the forest floor to wait until nightfall for the scavengers to find him.
Shifting his weight up onto the palms of his hands, Gravor tried to dig his fingers into the sandy rock, but the rock crumbled and offered no hold. The bits that he scratched away cascaded down the face of the rock and tumbled over the edge. Watching them, Gravor's chest seized. He felt the blood drain from his face and hands and heard a tinny hum begin to crescendo in his ears, and knew that in only a few seconds he would black out. Then it would be the end.
A song drifted into his mind. He absorbed its familiar, whiny tenor without regard at first, but then something in the words caught his attention.
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