"Wait..." Malcolm said, already reaching into his pocket, but the wind was howling and Raylan was wedged in the doorway and Malcolm's voice was lost with Raylan slipping outside. He frowned faintly and took a picture down the spiral staircase and a few of the 360 degrees of rusty windows around him and of the ceiling. Then he also shimmied through the door, glancing around as he got outside. He only had the thin fabric of his suit jacket for warmth, but the pinpricks of icy drizzly rain or sea spray - he couldn't tell which - and wind on his face felt good against the flush heat of his body's own reaction to its new chemical imbalance. He closed his eyes a moment and just breathed it in. It was like putting ice on a bruise, but everywhere.

After a moment, he opened his eyes, squinting against the icy rush of wind, and took some more pictures. Sea. Rocks. The town sprawled below. The forest where he woke up a scant few days ago with no idea the trouble he was in.

He didn't try to speak to Raylan and he didn't scrutinize the view from the lighthouse. They were seeing what someone wanted them to see: that there was nowhere to go. Instead he lingered quietly by the wall and watched the set of Raylan's back as he looked out.