It was cold. He was cold. There was no residual heat from the fire, and his fur was as thin on his slackened, neglected body. He shivered in short bursts, but mostly didn't have the energy or desire to, even if it was mostly reflex and instinct. There was snow outside. He could hear it, somehow. Perhaps it was only in his head, just like he could see it in his head. White snow against a black sky. Black shadows against the white ground. And whispers in the night, voices that only belonged in the past and that same dream, that same fantasy, those same words that didn't matter. If he could have died that night, he would have been happy. That night, lying between graves of people that had been stupid enough to care, he had been happy.
He smelled kerosene. It didn't belong in the memory of the dream of the fantasy. It didn't belong in the past. It belonged in the present. It belonged in his mouth and down his throat in his stomach, like poison. Was that how everything was going to end? A fire in a forest of snow? The wind howled. Another person breathing. He shivered again and closed his eyes, but other than that, had not moved in all the time he'd been left to lie there. His head felt heavy, like his skull and skeleton were trying to sink through the floor. He could still hear the snow. He wasn't so sure he wanted that to stop, but at least the present would be warmer soon.