All Jackson remembers from last night is panic. He recalls only parts of the trip home from work, and then the fury, the painful beating of his heart as he had pulled into his driveway. He remembers running to the neighbor to find a telephone, and the tears that had dripped tar-black down his smoke-colored cheeks. Now, everything smells like the smoke, the greasy powder that had fallen from the walls and ceiling of his home to land and embrace everything in its path. Everything ruined and Kingsley, the fire chief, inside right now, wandering through the rubble, inspecting the cause. "Looked like something near the fridge," he had said only moments ago, before heading in for a second or third look. "Did you have anything flammable sitting anywhere near it?"

"No," Jackson had said. Now he feels exhausted, worn out, the sun beginning to rise and bleed purple into the sky. Birds chirp in the trees surrounding him, but none of this everyday crap matters. Only the pungent stench of smoke and the fire chief inside his house, rooting through his things and him standing outside alone. The ambulances, the fire trucks and police cruisers had left not long ago, but Jackson remained behind to answer repeated questions, stand around and watch nosy neighbors watch him. It should have been him, the color of charcoal. He should have at least been there with them, because now everything is gone. He realizes that he is still wearing the blanket a police officer had offered earlier while questioning him to help the chill that had nestled deep inside his bones. The kind of chill that digs deep into your body and never truly goes away. Death in the next faded heart beat. If only ... if only ...

"Yup, definitely started somewhere behind the fridge," the voice of the fire chief comes from behind, startling Jackson.

"I believe the fire started inside the wall. The house is old. Faulty wire, maybe. Do you know when the house was last rewired?"

"We bought it only a few years ago," Jackson says. "I have no idea."

"The former home owners never mention anything?"

"They were an old couple. Died one after the other. If there is any kind of information like that, it'll be upstairs in the bottom drawer of the dresser along with the rest of the paper work."

"Great, I'll get to that as soon as I can. Now, I have to ask that you stay out of the house until the inspector comes. The air inside is toxic, so I wouldn't advise it anyways."

"Do you suspect arson?"

Kingsley pulls back his head and frowns. "No, if I did the police would still be here. Like I said, it looks as though it started inside the wall, but I'm not the expert here. The official inspector will confirm it." The fire chief pauses, as though realizing something. More birds chirp in the trees, the congregation singing a lament. "You should've left with your family," the fire chief says. "Looks like you should see a doctor, though. Tell ya what, I'll contact the insurance company for you. We'll hook up later when you're feeling better." Again he pauses, then adds, "I'm sorry for your loss," as though these words alone could fill the sudden hole inside him, could heal the wound that only feels physical but is not and might never stop bleeding. The sting of tears fills Jackson's eyes, and although his mouth is opening and closing, like a fish, no words come out. And when the words do come out of Jackson's mouth, they are mutilated and choked.

"They're all gone," he says, the watery tar-black dripping all the way down to his chin. He looks away from Kingsley to the now hollow house. Hollowed of its soul and life and Jackson wants to go in there and lick the walls, taste the aftermath of death until he chokes on it. "They're all dead."

The fire chief puts his hand on Jackson's shoulder. "It'll get easier with time," he says, but Jackson barely hears. "Let me get my truck, I'll take you to the hospital myself. You're in no shape to drive." Then he's gone, his bulk dissolving and Jackson is staring at the kitchen window. Just beyond the broken glass panel, there is a set of shadowy shoulders, a shadowy head with no hair and midnight slick skin. The whites of its eyes blink, and two rows of large teeth catch the sun and begin to chatter with loud ticking sounds.

Jackson tries to scream, but the world around him closes in, and he can feel the ground coming up to greet his body as everything, the neighbors watching from porches and windows, the chirping birds and the blinding sun disappear and go blessedly silent.

Two hours later and Jackson is still unconscious. Dreams do not leave him alone. He is standing in his home, the way it was only one day ago. In the living room, all is silent, the soft orange light from the lamp and a blue florescent glow from the television illuminate the room and Jackson, in the middle of the room, feels relaxed. Adel and Jesse and Otto are in the other rooms, tucked peacefully inside their beds. Jackson knows this, and tries to call out to them, but they cannot hear him, so he tries to move, to go to them, but his limbs are heavy, lethargic and limp. With an audible tink, the sound of a blown light bulb, the living room fades to pitch-black. The muscles in his legs stiffen and cramp, but still he cannot move.

Silver light fills the blackness, the moon moving faster than it does in real time, fills the window behind him.

Shadows move within the inky blackness, silver moon rays catching the whites of their eyes. Jackson can move again, and he raises his arms, stretches them out before him, his fingers reaching for the things out there. The smell of smoke clogs the inside of his nostrils, and his fingers graze upon one of the hairless creatures moving, dancing around him. Its skin is like touching scorched wood and its flesh chips to ash and charcoal-black paints his fingers. He pulls back and expects retaliation, but none comes, the creature he had touched converges in with the rest, their teeth and eyes blocked only by the crazy movement of their arms. _The people of death_, he thinks, _the people of coal_, and the smoke trails into the living room, exciting the creatures, the sound of snapping fingers and the fire climbs the wall just inside the next room, in the kitchen, and its almost comforting glow of campfire yellow and orange illuminates the entrance.

The smoke collects around the dancing tribesmen, fills their essence and their eyes grow, their teeth expanding to the size of wooden planks and only get bigger. As they close in, their scorched wooden fingers and tongues dig into his nose, into his mouth, down his throat. _Coal to soak in all the poison_. The words fill his ears; they silence the snap and crackle of the fire consuming his life. He tries to scream, but he is suffocating in their embrace, their teeth white and large, so large that it's all he can see. He blinks the tears away from his eyes, the light, fluorescent now and horribly white, blinds and stings, digs deep into his eyes like daggers. There is an external gasp, a quick breath of air, then "Chief Kingsley, I think he's awake now," and the chief's large shoulders and head eclipse the fluorescents.

"Had us all worried there for a while, little buddy," he says and smiles. Jackson winces at the man's large teeth. "I had to call another ambulance after you took that nose dive." Cold fingers press against his wrist, and Jackson realizes a nurse is standing to his left, checking his pulse. Her smile is sympathetic, melancholic but well meaning. When she's done she writes something down on her clipboard, then leaves. Her sneakers squeak upon the waxed floor.

As Jackson sits up, rubbing his eyes to try to clear them, the world tilts with vertigo and nausea. In front of his bed, there are white walls with grey bordering and three metal tiers full of intravenous bags, plastic hypodermics, Popsicle sticks and wound dressings. He concentrates on these for a moment, to fight the nausea, and expects the scent of a hospital, but all he can smell is the smoke from the fire. He looks down to see that he’s still wearing the same clothes from last night, all streaked in black from that one moment he went inside the smoke congested house and called out to Adel, to Otto and Jesse, but with no answer. The sound of crackling fire had been layered over a dreadful silence, a silence he'll never forget.

The fire chief steps in front of the bed, blocking the view of the white wall and the supply shelf. His smile is gone, and his eyes hold pain that is foreign to the man's previous disposition. "I'm really sorry about your family," he says. "And I'm also sorry if I seemed unsympathetic earlier this morning. I just never know the right thing to say to people who've lost so much."

How about just shutting the fuck up and leaving me alone. The thought is not a question, but a desperate demand. Jackson keeps the words to himself. "Is there any reason you're still here?" he asks. The fire chief raises his eyebrows again, two thick caterpillars climbing his forehead, and for reasons lost to Jackson, the man looks surprised.

"Just worried about you. Besides, I wasn't here the whole time. I just came back about ten minutes before you woke to check up."

"Well, I'm still alive, thank you. So if you don't mind, I'd like to be alone and wait for the doctor release me."

Chief Kingsley nods his head, purses his thin lips.

"Unless, of course, you have more questions?"

"No, but I do have some news from your insurance. They're sending out an adjuster. He'll be around the site sometime this afternoon to assess some of the damage. He'll want to get a statement from you."

"Do I have to be there today?"

"No, considering the circumstances. So tell me, where you gonna stay? Family? Friends?"

Jackson frowns, his only possessions, aside from his car, are smoky and black underneath the hospital's clean sheets. "No," he says. "I'm all alone now."

"Not even an aunt or uncle somewhere?"

Why won't this bastard just leave me alone? "Yeah, but they live in Montreal and Edmonton."

Chief Kingsley nods his head again as though taking a second to register the information. "You can stay with me, if you want. I got an extra room, and Maggie won't mind."

"If it's all the same to you, Chief, I'll do fine just getting a room somewhere until I can find a place of my own."

"Just offering," the Chief says. "If you change your mind, you know where to get a hold of me."

He turns and steps out of the room, and Jackson is finally alone. He shifts position on the bed, wonders how he’s going to get home, or where he's going to go for that matter. As the uncertainty cultivates inside his stomach, spreading its dark wings up into the sensitive parts inside his ribcage, he realizes that he truly does not want this isolation. He craves the company of those who can no longer comfort him, take care of him, the ones who could foster this sudden loneliness and make him feel complete and in control.

The motel room is small, but it's all Jackson can afford. The bathroom is such that when you sit on the toilet your knees rub against the minute vanity, and if you stand before the mirror and turn too quickly, you run the risk of falling into the bathtub. The kitchen is the size of a broom closet, holding a miniature sink, small counter, two electric burners, and a bar fridge. The bedroom and living space is the biggest room with a double sized bed and the 17-inch television Jackson is sitting in front of on an uncomfortable chair that looks decades old.

He is wearing the cheap Wal-Mart suit fellow bartenders had helped him buy with their kindly donations and a tip-jar over at the bar with a sign on it saying, "Help our fellow, who lost everything, get back on his feet." Below the words, there was a picture of Jackson serving drinks. News travels fast in this town. The day after the fire, after Jackson had called his boss telling him of the tragedy and that he needed a few days off, people he barely knew stopped him on the street to offer condolences they did not really mean, just doing it for the sake of fuzzy warm feelings. His boss had passed him a few envelopes full of fives, tens, twenties, and one with a roll of quarters. And the clothes; Jackson probably has more clothing now than ever before.

But dreams of the hairless creatures, painted midnight-black with smoke grease, their flesh of charcoal and scorched wood, do not leave him alone. Jackson can see them when he is awake, while talking with the insurance adjuster, driving the car, and even today, in the cemetery near the end of his family’s funeral. Always in the shadows, hiding behind trees, inside other people's homes and cars and staring out at him through windows, their teeth long and white, their eyes large circles of hunger and lust.

Sitting on the chair, smoking a cigarette, Jackson feels nothing. A great humming silence deep in his core and until now the cigarettes a habit avoided. Yet, when he puts the cigarette up to his lips and pulls hard, inhaling the grey smoke, his head feels feather-light, his vision blurs. He stays close to the element that had consumed his life, suffocated his family. He often smoked one cigarette after another, not minding the subsequent vomiting or the sleepless nights. He sits with his arms flat on the armrests. In his other hand, a bottle of bourbon scotch. His eyes red-rimmed and half-open, lips parted. A new age zombie wearing a suit and tie. The television on, but nobody to pay it any attention.

A knock on the door, Jackson jumps, and the long shaft of disregarded ash drops from the burning ember of the cigarette and crumbles to the floor. Another knock, more desperate than the one snapping Jackson back into real time, real life, and "Jackson, are you in there, buddy? Come on, answer the door."

Jackson snubs the cigarette into the ashtray sitting on the nightstand, lights another, gets up and answers the door. He expects family visiting from other provinces for the funeral, his mother or father, his in-laws, but it's Chief Kinsley standing there, knuckles poised to knock again. "Boy you look like shit! Look even worse than earlier this afternoon at the funeral." He waves his hand in front of him, left to right, left to right. "And you stink. What's that shit you got there, whiskey?"

Jackson's mind crawls back to that other place, where dreams and reality are almost one, and he cannot digest everything the Chief has said. So he says, "What do you want?" instead, avoiding Chief Kingsley's worried and suspicious eyes, the flush in his cheeks spreading as though the man is embarrassed for Jackson, feels sorry for the pathetic piece of shit before him. Jackson looks down at his feet.

"I came to see how you're holding up, and now that I've seen you, I think that it's time for you to stop feeling sorry for yourself. Come on, let's go for some coffee and sober you up."

Jackson looks up into the Chief's eyes, can feel blood heating his own face now, and white spots fill his vision. Who is this man to judge him? A man he didn't even know a week ago. And now he's staring at Jackson like a long lost friend, his expression full of sympathy and the I'm gonna take care of you whether you like it or not hard love. "I don't want any coffee," Jackson says. "I just want to be left alone." And he goes to close the door in Kingsley's face, but the fat man is too quick, sticking out his foot to jam the door, and he says, "I know what's happening to you. And if you stay in this state, you will die."

The door bounces off the Chief's foot, and Jackson lets it open again. He says, "What if that's what I want?"

"I wouldn't blame you," Kingsley says. "But not like this. Come for coffee with me. We have to talk."

A dull, throbbing pain behind Jackson's eyes, his body dehydrating, and perhaps coffee is a good idea. "Talk about what?"

"The things you've been seeing since the fire," the Chief says. "And what now lives inside your house."

The sun sinks eastward and there is a cold breeze blowing brown and yellow leaves down the street. The leaves fill the sky whenever wind blows strong enough to shake their former homes free of the dying to prepare for the long sleep. They fall to the ground and the wind swipes them up again, twirling them around in circles like lost souls, like baby birds thrust out of the nest too early. The dull pulse of voices in the cafe pulls Jackson back, and he looks away from the window, wonders why he never watched, sat down and really watched the artistic ritual of nature. Always too busy fallowing the rituals of life, avoiding the inevitable as though it were something you could hide from, autumn and winter, old age and death.

“Here we go,” Kingsley says, sitting down across from Jackson and placing a bottle of water and a coffee in front of him. “Drink up, the water is so you don’t dehydrate. The coffee can actually make you worse.” Along with the coffee and water, Kingsley has also bought a sandwich. He picks it up off the plate, groans so that Jackson can almost see the man salivate, and digs in his large white teeth. A loud lettuce crunch and juice flows down his chin. He licks his lips once the bread and meat is away. Tiny crumbs hang onto his tongue and Jackson feels sick to his stomach. Feels as though the half-pint of whiskey he drank in under an hour is just sitting there, on the upper level of his stomach like sour milk, and he wonders if he'll have to sit and watch Kingsley eat. He turns his head and looks out the window, but something tar-black catches the corner of his eye.

"I hear we're in for a nasty winter," Kinsley says, and just behind him, shadows come alive. Behind another costumer, on the other side of the room, slick black arms stretch out, the skin scaly like a snake, its bulbous head without hair, eyes, a nose, a mouth. It stretches up and turns around, places its hands upon the wall and begins to climb. Kingsley and everyone else in the cafe do not notice, the hum of many conversations continue to pulsate in Jackson's eardrums, and no one in the long line-up even flinch as the naked creature climbs the wall, leaving dark, oily hand and foot prints as it goes. "A long cold winter," Kingsley says and Jackson tries to pretend nothing is wrong. "Lots of snow, and a lot of really cold days." Kingsley looks out the window, looks up to the sky overcast with low, threatening clouds. "Looks like it could snow any day now."

The creature reaches the top, crawls on its hands and knees across the ceiling, towards Jackson and Kingsley, its round head twirling around as though working out a cramp. This isn't real, Jackson thinks, _only in my head, this isn’t real_, and aloud “I hate winter,” hoping Kingsley hasn't noticed the sweat on his forehead, the shaking of his hands or the tremble in his voice. But Kingsley doesn't even look up, too caught up with his meaty sandwich and its finger licking juices to notice the thing almost above, its head thrashing, coiling, large teeth breaking through the mouth, thick black flakes falling from the crumbling fissure there, and it sounds like something chewing through wood or plaster.

"Can't say I'm a big fan of winter, either." Kingsley says. He must have looked up from his sandwich, because now he's reaching across the table. "Hey, buddy. You okay?" His hand touches Jackson's shoulder. Jackson flinches, and the thing above has stopped crawling. It opens its mouth wide, a sick and wretched smile, a howl of victory. Jackson’s heart pounds painfully inside his chest. He can smell smoke; it fills his nostrils and makes it hard to breath.

"Chitta bit," the thing makes the noises through its mouth as its teeth gnaws and chews on nothing but air. "Chitta dow," and Kingsley takes his hand away as Jackson heaves, then stands up quickly, the backs of his knees thrusting the chair away.

The murmur of voices stop, and everyone stares at Jackson, anxious eyes all over him, waiting for him to lose it. Some even appear to anticipate it, their mouths working up and down, "yes, yes, yes," old women and men with nothing better to do than watch television and gossip.

Kingsley stares up at him, his eyes huge and worried. "Jackson?" he says. "What's wrong?"

"Chitta bit! Chitta dow!"

"I have to go," Jackson says, clutching his stomach and looking at the floor as he rushes outside. He barely makes it before the vomit burns the back of his throat and he is puking on the cafe's front step, chasing away a young couple who had just pulled in. He rests his arm on the plastic garbage bin, the garbage inside overflowing with paper cups and uneaten donuts, the sweet smell of rot with flies buzzing. Jackson bends over and vomits until his stomach is empty. The sidewalk, littered with cracks, have tiny blades of grass seeping through. The brick wall has cigarette butts sticking out of the mortar. The faces of Adel, her premature grey hair, and little Otto and Jesse flash behind his eyelids when he closes his eyes. Their eyes unforgiving, digging holes into his mind, and when the retching subsides, he sits down on the concrete, cool and wet from his vomit.

He could die here, alone and detached from the world.

"Yeah, you could die here, if you really wanted." Jackson opens his eyes to Kingsley standing above him, reading his thoughts as though he were an open book. "Here, you forgot your coffee," Kingsley says, handing him the paper cup. The coffee feels warm in his hands, sends chills to race up his arms and dance upon his spine. He doesn't open it, just holds it with both hands, hugging it close.

"I'm not used to this kind of pain," Jackson says. Kingsley sits down beside him, avoiding the vomit, and listens. "I don't know what to do. A week ago, my life was normal, always had been normal. We moved here about three years ago because Adel was offered a good teaching job. I knew I could find work here so I didn't mind. As a bartender, I have seen all kinds of sorrow. I've seen a lot of loss, people talk when they drink, you know? But I never thought ..."

"Never thought it would happen to you," Kingsley finishes for him.

"Yeah," Jackson says. "And now I feel like … I don't know."

"You're different now," the chief says. "You can see things now that most people can't, things that most people will go on and on in life and never see."

"And what does that make me, fucking special or something? I don't want to see the things I see!"

"It makes you different," Kingsley says, sounding irritated. "And that's all. You have a new life ahead of you now. You will never be the same, and eventually you will come to learn that. What will make you special is how you come through. On your hands and knees, bleeding from your stomach, or standing strong. The choice is up to you."

The fire chief stands up, brushes his pants free of dust and cold. "Well, I should get going now. Maggie will be waiting for me at home."

As he walks away, Jackson looks up and says, "You can see them too..

Kingsley turns around, a small smile plays at the corner of his lips, yet the smile does not reach his melancholic eyes. "Oh, I've seen them since I was a kid, Jackson," he says. "And many worse things."

"Then what do I do?"

The wind teases the few hairs remaining on Kingsley's head. "You do what your gut tells you to do to survive, Jackson. That's all any of us can do."

Jackson stands in front of the ruined house.

Days have gone by, weeks, and Jackson has not see Kingsley. The man's words and what he might know work on Jackson's mind, but soon Jackson begins to forget where the wisdom even came from. He lives on instinct. He goes to work, returns to the motel and avoids the bottle. He takes care of himself, washing everyday and brushing his teeth, all the things a normal person should do. The restoration people are cleaning out the rubble and ruined furniture of the old house, preparing to rebuild. Jackson isn't sure if he wants to move back. Might sell the place and move back to the city. Back home. But something in his gut, his instincts, keeps him here, in this small town, everyday.

Perhaps he remains for the memory of his children, Otto and Jesse. The playgrounds, the school, and all the other kids they played with a monument. Perhaps he stays because this town is where Adel felt most happy, most at peace with herself. More likely, it has something to do with the bald men and women he sees climbing trees and walls while gnashing their teeth, their tar-black skin reflecting the light of the sun or moon, their eyes, when they have eyes, wild and insane.

The night, his time of work, has come alive in ways Jackson has never noticed before. He watches the streets from the window of his motel room. Before and after work, his eyes on the stars above, the slow ascent and descent of the moon, and the drunk, stoned children of the night, the ruined, starved souls, starved for an end to ritual and malevolence yet creating wickedness themselves with their mouths and fists. Flashing police lights, the cacophony of sirens and radios, and the snapping of handcuffs create more entertainment than the cable television his room came with. Reality is the true guts and grit of life.

Sometimes after work, he heads out for late-night walks, often passing the ruins of his life. He stands there now. The structure is gloomy, enshrouded with shadows and it reminds Jackson of ghosts. In the back yard, the people of coal dance in circles around a bonfire under the stars. Jackson tries to talk to them, but they don't answer. They just move their bodies, snap their teeth at the cold, and so he stands with his hands in his pockets, the cool autumn night air biting at his cheeks. Since the incident, he's only been inside the house twice, once with the insurance adjuster, and a second time with the restoration crew. He avoids the place during the day. The sunlight no longer belongs in his realm of existence, the night marking the time of his rebirth.

You are different now. You have a new life ahead of you.

There is movement deep in the shadows of blackened windows. The early morning dancers are gone. They are waiting for him inside, have been since the first day he saw them. But they are patient in their waiting, would wait until the day Jackson died if they had to. He takes a step onto the property, steps past the large garbage bin, and wanders his way to the back door.

Inside, the house is silent, the same dreadful silence he experienced the night he opened the door and heard only the snap and crackle of fire. The smell of smoke is still strong, so strong that Jackson pauses a moment to cough. When his lungs finally begin to accept the air, he peels off his jacket and lets it fall onto the floor. Nowhere else to put it, the restoration people had taken most of the salvageable wooden furniture, leaving behind anything completely upholstered, completely ruined for the garbage. He curses himself for not bringing a flashlight, but his eyes are adjusting to the dismal light coming in through smoke-stained windows. He steps into the kitchen, where the fire had begun, and says, "Okay, here I am."

Nothing answers, the room is quiet and motionless.

Jackson kicks off his shoes and removes his socks. His feet make sucking sounds as he steps around. He feels the softness of the tiled floor, the grit from the walls and the part of the ceiling that had caved in. Next, he peels off his shirt, lets it fall to the blackened floor, and steps over to where the fridge used to be. The fridge stands near the middle of the room now so that the inspector could do his work. Jackson steps up to the wall, stares into the holes there, their depth, their darkness and complexity. He reaches out, touches the edge. This one hole, this is where it started. He knows this because the insurance adjuster had showed him when they went through the contents of the house. He also knows this because it feels right. The air inside the hole is cold and heavy, waiting to touch his warm flesh.

Jackson pulls his hand away to look at the black grease painted on his fingers. An oily residue that reminds him of hash oil he used to smoke back in school, before he met Adel. It too is cold on his cheeks as he rubs it in, painting his face black. He digs into the hole until his hands are as black as the environment around him. He paints his body the color of pain, the color of life cut short, the color of false security and everyday lies. A shade with all existing colors mixed in, the universe and everything now upon his chest and neck and face, and he bends over to remove his pants, his underwear, rubs the smoke onto his erection, beneath his balls, inside the crack of his ass, his legs and his feet, until he is completely covered. Until he can taste nothing but the smoke and it burns his lungs and makes him want to gag.

But he doesn't. Absolute animal instinct now and he fondles himself, calls out the names of his lost ones. "Adel," he says. "Otto, Jesse," and strokes himself up and down, up and down until his heart begins to race and the wall before him shifts, growing arms and opening eyes. Teeth as large as fingers smiling at him through that hole, urging him onward, and he wonders for a moment what Chief Kingsley would think of this madness if he were to see it. But the arms and legs stretch out, ending all thought, and he grips himself tighter as the limbs wrap around his body, pulling him inside, marking him as its next victim. He climaxes as his body touches the skeletal remains, and the pressure of being dragged into the wall does not hurt. Doesn't hurt because his body is liquefying with the orgasm, letting him pass between ribbed wooden beams like water, and the teeth are smiling. They smile and take Jackson in, and the world sinks, whirlpools down and down until there is nothing more.

Outside the burnt house, Jackson lights a cigarette. The taste fills his mouth, a disgusting taste that kept him from smoking throughout his adolescent days, but he enjoys the habit now. Even enjoys the taste. Somehow, it feels like home.

Running a hand through his hair thick with the stench of house fire, he takes a deep drag, and turns to head back to the motel. Behind, he leaves a trail of blue-grey mist in rhythm to his breath. The smoke raises into swirling, ghostly fingers, and the road ahead a labyrinth of murky streets, many sharp turns and a few dead ends. But the sky is turning a deep purple with the sun lurking just below the horizon, and Jackson shivers slightly in the early morning chill. It's the kind of shiver he knows will never entirely fade, but the thought doesn’t bother him anymore. Winter is still far away.