The snow was deeper than it looked, cresting the tops of his thin shoes, soaking his socks until his toes were numb except for the occasional needle pricks of cold. His hands were warm enough, deep in the pocket, wrapped loosely around the coil of rope.
With irritation he saw that, on this of all mornings, the Round House was open. People cradled steaming cups as they joked and laughed with one another.
He had forgotten how bare trees were in winter, how far you could see through them, especially something hanging from a branch.
He would go further, then.