In the dream, the snow is not falling, but the world is covered with a crisp blanket of white. Victor can feel icy air on his neck and wrists.

The world is at a slant, and he is walking uphill. He must, but he does not know why. His feet break ragged ovals through the crust of the snow as he walks, and he can hear the gentle wind in his ears, but nothing more. He marches to a destination he does not see, and does not understand, but does not question. His world is the quiet march of his feet.

Suddenly in front of him is a bump in the snow, straight-sided and rounded on top. Curious, he approaches it, and as he does he sees the snow shift, revealing a surface of smooth, pale granite beneath. The gray edge of a chiseled S peeks out from beneath the frozen white.

Frowning now, he straightens and looks around. He is near the top of a little hill, and all about him for as far as he can see are similar humps, slabs of white granite under mantles of snow.

Has all his journey been through here, or to here?