Look, friend. Willard would like nothing better than to leave you to plunge neck-deep into the swamp or catch a case of jungle rot or wind up mauled by a tiger or get yourself captured or killed. You're rude and you're obnoxious, you're going to draw attention, and quite frankly he'd be better off without you.

But he isn't about to let another guy die because of his sins. He could live with the knowledge if he did, sure, but there's more than enough weight on his chest as it is.

Willard takes a perceptible breath, feet planted on the path, watching the guy. "You're standing in quicksand." Probably walking right into a swamp. Jesus.