These memories of Christmases long, long ago
come to Ned in dreams. Each year rolls over him like the incoming
tide, washing away a little more of his resolve, until his soul is
bare to the elements. Wind whistles through him, cutting across his
skin as it buffets his storm-torn heart. As he fights against the
tide of memories, he drifts toward wakefulness, a lingering chill
following him back to reality.
He wakes with a start, surprised to find he’s
fallen asleep on the sofa. The half-empty carton once full of ice
cream now leaks a brown, soupy mess into his lap. Quickly he sits
up, sets the ice cream aside, and starts to brush ineffectively at
the damp spots staining the front of his jeans. With detached
amusement, he realizes it looks like he’s come in his sleep.
There’s a
