The air was laced with a stinging cold he could feel burn in the chambers of his lungs. Lost and lonely, he dragged himself through the knee-deep swamp of snow. He had no sense of direction as he trudged on—there were no destinations to reach there, in that frostbitten desert—but going forward was better than going nowhere. Infinite miles stretched identically every way he turned in a way that made him understand the roundness of the earth. On the ground was a blank slate of snow, void of any blemishes save for the clumsy footprints that trailed behind him. Its gleaming white blended with the sunlit clouds above him, confusing his senses. Up was down. The sky was below him. His pinched eyes filled with blurry spots, and he laid himself down, pressing an angel into the fresh flakes. Numerous schoolhouse lessons about arctic creatures resurfaced in his mind; he searched for them here, needing proof he was still alive and not imprisoned in Dante’s Ninth Circle. But there were none. The landscape was empty. Full of nothing but bright white light and crystallizing snow.