It was the coldest season on record for Ithaca. Livestock was dying in their sheds, crops froze and then snapped, and the ground was always dry. There was nothing. Nothing but frost, and bitterly violent wind, and everyone feared snow. Disease spread quickly, mostly among the poorest with little shelter and stocked preserves to last them through the winter.

You were among the poorest.

Odysseus had no choice but to brave a trip to the market in the freezing conditions to fetch medicine for one of his palace patreons. The others were too afraid they would freeze upon exit, or be eaten by a wild animal craving warmth, or buried in a sudden snowstorm, or catch a disease that would kill them before they returned.

Everything as far as the eye could see was covered in a thick layer of frost. That includes a body lying motionless next to an irrigation ditch.

Odysseus runs to the body and drops next to it. His gut wrenches at the gruesome sight of ice crystals gluing their eyes shut. He picks them up — it is like holding ice in his hands.

He brings the body back to the palace with no confirmation on whether they are alive or deceased. He orders his servants to break the frost off of the body, warm them, check for a pulse. It is not until the next day that they awake.

Odysseus is called into the lounge where the stranger lies, wrapped in several layers of thick wool, directly next to the fireplace. He crouched next to them, places the back of his hand onto their forehead.

“Do you speak my language?” He asks, his voice gentle and nonintrusive. He receives a slight nod as an answer.

“Good,” he continues. “What is your name?”