Cold. Arid. Lifeless. The Alaskan tundra was truly unforgiving. Agent Harris shivered despite the heavy parka he wore. There was no civilization for hundreds of miles, only bare, icy earth.

The tiny way-station Harris was currently settled in was not nearly insulated enough to stop the piercing wind. It had no heating, no electricity, not even a fireplace, and the weathered wooden walls let screaming shards of the gale through. It was better than watching for the Russians completely exposed to the elements, though, so he couldn’t complain too much.

There was no form of entertainment to occupy him, no bed, no kitchen. Only a mostly frozen bottle of water and a few frosty ration bars, a single plain wooden chair, a stiff cot, a flickering oil lamp, and a window with terrifyingly thick glass that wobbled and warped in its frame. Harris didn’t mind. This way, he couldn’t get distracted.

The measurable infinity of the tundra yawned out from the little waystation, the pale grey sky blending into the pale grey ice of the horizon and creating a great sphere of impenetrable chill. Sometimes, Harris wondered if he was in a snow globe, nothing more than a flickering light in a tiny shack amongst the ice and snow.

Then again, people in snow globes didn’t have to wait out here for days watching for a secret Russian invasion.