Ralph looked down at his waist.

One of the lianas from the canopy had wound itself around him. It was smooth, writhing, black, and muscular—not at all plant-like. He grabbed it with his hands and tried to pull it off.

But his fingers could not get purchase on the slippery skin. And it held him tight, its grip as unyielding as steel.

He reached for his right pocket, where he had left the knife, when a second vine slapped painfully at his right arm and then curled itself around it. It started to pull. He lost his balance and fell.

Using his free hand to get at the pocket, he found the knife's handle and pulled it out. It was still in its sheath, and he shook it free. With a grunt, he swung it against the thing holding his right arm. The blade left a deep cut in the fabric—or flesh—of the liana. It jerked back but did not let him go. It dragged him some way along the ground, roughly, scratching his skin.

Then the liana around his waist tugged at him, too, and lifted him up.

A wrenching pain seared into his right shoulder, and he lost his grip on the knife. He cried out.

A third vine appeared in his field of vision and whipped itself around his neck. It started to tighten. His head was turned skywards, and he felt he was finally falling into this infinity of cyan-blue.

Two reddish creatures sailed across the sky, glittering like crimson gems carried by translucent wings.

The pain around his neck was excruciating.

Pete, he thought.