There isn't another handhold. The middle of the cliff is completely smooth, impossible to climb, from one side to the other.
Jokey holds on to the very last handhold, staring at the rock in front of him. All this work, all this time...
Has been for nothing.
He bursts into giggles, barely not slipping off the cliff, distantly wondering why he even cares at this point. The laughter is not a happy sound. It's slightly deranged, filled with tears, the kind of sound that only somesmurf like Jokey is really capable of.
Maybe it's minutes later. Maybe it's days. Either way, exhaustion eventually creeps in. His laughter turns to strangled sobs. Even those die down. His grip loosens. His eyes slide shut.
He falls.
The fox is waiting.
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