Hontwohl, Ken's place of birth, famous for its clean lakes, velvet skiing slopes, banking and chocolatiers, survived the third World War in style. Only the wealthy and their celebrity playthings litter the Europan vacation paradise. Otherwise, it is spotlessly clean. It smells like ozone (sharp), pine (fresh), and money (old and new).

Jun skates on the outer edge of her skis, using them like a blades to switch directions as she zigs back and forth across the steep slope. Further down slope, braked by a towering pine, a male figure waits. His hair is dark; his legs long. Wind has burned his cheeks. An athletic flush has made his lips red. Mirrored goggles hide his eyes, reflecting white, the cloudless sky, and a snow-laden pine bough above him.

A squirrel hops onto it, dislodging the snow; showering his head. The pine's needles show dark and green.