From page 283 of the book-in-progress:
All week came the snow and with it a series of bleak dreams that he awoke from each morning in confusion and terror, a night spent scrambling through a blizzarding forest gone black and malevolent, his movement hindered by the substance of the snow that lay everywhere in his path, a substance that clung to him even as it seemed liquid, fluid, like quicksand. He did not know how many hours he labored in those frozen and claustrophobic landscapes but when he awoke at last it would be to the muffled and strangling darkness of a trailer nearly buried, as if the waking world had come to mirror the dream he had fled, the details of which blew away with each gust of the storm outside the trailer’s thin walls, leaving only the sense of it—fear, panic, terror—his body shaking with cold even though the trailer itself was warm, the woodstove’s vents tamped down but the cinders continuing to glow and the propane heater at a low constant hum. And yet he awoke trembling, as if somehow his skeleton had frozen in the night and he woke with cold dry bones everywhere inside of him.
