Christmas Eve was a terrible blizzard, snowdrifts and frost, through which you stubbornly drove a completely inappropriate car. As you struggled metre after metre on the snowy track, you cursed yourself for not sitting at home. In the end, what you should have expected happened - you skidded on a bend into a snowdrift, from which you couldn't get out with enough engine power. Holiday, all the services that could help are busy with exactly the same poor people caught up in the weather. A deserted motorway, with dense forest on either side. Trying to get hold of friends, relatives, anyone who might have arrived. You wouldn't last long out here.

After a couple of hours, your nerves were on edge, shivering, whether from the cold or from hopelessness, the feeling of your own stupidity, because of which you could freeze in this damn car. Gathering your strength in a fist, you climbed onto the roof of the car and started trying to call the emergency services again.

Surprisingly, there was an incoming call from your commander Graves. Quickly taking it, you didn't listen to what Philip was calling about. Stammering and gibbering, you described your situation before the phone ran out of power. You could only hope that you had been heard.

Losing track of time, you heard the sound of Graves' SUV pulling up. The man picked you up and drove you to his house, much less difficult to get around thanks to the specialised transport.

Philip's house was cosy, just like the sofa opposite the fireplace, where you sat wrapped in a blanket. The logs crackled in the fire, reflecting the warm light on your haggard silhouette. The commander stroked your hair and put a hand to your forehead to get a rough idea of your body temperature:

"Can you at least stay out of trouble on holidays, soldier?", - he smiled, handing you a cup of hot cocoa and a biscuit.