What.

He finds himself on his feet, staring at the marks. At the count of umbrellas. Five. He counts them all again, standing in the clearing with his hands by his side.

All seven now accounted for.

There had to be an explanation for this. Maybe he was dreaming? His subconscious bleeding out? It felt real though, down to the tingling in his hands, numb cold flowing into that stinging pain.

So he stares and stares and stares, instead, jaw working, and with a cold sort of detachment, finally moves to see the remaining five stones.