Re: Stairs to the roof. The shadows.
The mention of being dead made the Wolf think of the undead thing from earlier in the evening, and he yowled even louder than before, right in the not-thing's ear, and all without warning. "You're not dead," he insisted, because being dead would make this thing unnatural, and then the Wolf would have to kill it, and he was starting to think of it as pack. Not that he wouldn't kill it if he had to, but he would rather not. He was tired and sore, yes, that was it. And there was something in the back of his mind that said he had a problem with dead things. Somewhere.
The comment about not needing to try at all was enough to make the Wolf laugh, even with the possibility of needing to kill the not-thing, and even with the pain from the pressure at his throat. The blood was no longer seeping into the cotton-turned-tourniquet, and the Wolf was fairly sure he would live to eat another harmless boy or two, and he was feeling better in general. Maybe he would pretend the not-thing hadn't told him he was dead.