Wine plucked from the veins of an Italian vineyard sloshes in Jean's glass. He watches, eyes trained on the waves crashing against the transparent walls, the murky aftertaste a thick film on his tongue. The snow collecting on the windowpane has become his only companion these past few months–before it was the rain or the sunny weather. Company has forsaken him.

And then a knock startles him, and the wine no longer succeeds in offering its solace. The muscles in his neck strain to accommodate the turn of his head, and he waits. Another knock, this one more hurried and louder, the cedar door erupting with the pleasure of finally being touched. He gruffs and moves to open it.