He finds himself on a semicircular stone porch, a repository for busted-up furniture. He can't tell what direction he's facing: the world is in chaos. He looks up at the sky, at the deluge of snow floating down. He opens his arms wide. He wants to shout out her name. Her name is her body, her scent, the shadow she casts upon the world. The violence and unexpectedness of this weather leads him not to the actual belief that the world is in a state of emergency and that everything now is suddenly permitted, but to something close to it, something that suggests what that would feel like.