Screw Timmy, you think to yourself. Someone else can rescue his scrawny ass this time.
You lope on towards the mountains, hoping to run into one of those hermits with backyard grills you always hear about. Where are those guys when you need them?
The smell of smoke still pervades the air, mingling with the slightly fainter calls for help from well-boy. Life is still pretty good. Now if only...
Coming out of a steep ravine, you spot a large, barrel-chested man, chopping wood. He glances in your direction, wiping sweat from his brow, and exclaims: "Hey there, pup. Want some steak?"
You can't believe your luck.