As the sun rose, flooding the waking woods with a yellow light, Kick swept the fire out onto the duff in front of the fireplace. He attempted to return the metal drawer, and its contents, to its slot in the chimney wall, but found that it was too heavy. So he carefully poured half the coins out onto his sweater, and by reducing its weight he was able to lift the drawer up and slide it into its slot. He left the drawer sticking out a few inches so he could drop the remaining coins in, which he did, letting them drop one by one among their brethren with a dull clink. Then he gathered his sweater, tied it around his waist, and set off in the direction of the stream, which he had heard the night before.
The stream which tumbled along over limestone ledges between slimy, moss-covered boulders was criss-crossed with downed trees and fallen limbs. It lay in the bottom of a ravine which widened towards the west where, Kick assumed, it must meet the lake. Stripping down to his waist, Kick dropped to his knees and did his best to clean himself up. It took some doing to work the dried blood out of his eyebrow and beard, and he wished again that he had a mirror. The cut on his forehead had evolved into an angry lump. Kick gingerly traced it with his fingers, and using a sleeve of his sweater, which he had dipped in the stream, he cleaned it up as best he could. He felt sick again, and also a little dizzy.
Down by the stream the mosquitoes were unbearable and the numerous fallen trees made the going tough- so Kick walked a parallel course, about a hundred feet off to one side. He followed it as best he could as it made its way down towards the lake, and after several minutes of stumbling through the woods he heard a waterfall ahead of him. Kick made his way back towards the stream, battling his way through the dense growth and the clouds of mosquitoes until he came to a cliff, where the stream crashed over and down into a brown pool before flowing out through flooded woods into the broad lake.