Myles woke to a dream. He lay there, shivering under a single thin blanket. He looked around him... A tent, a thin tent, its sides flapping from the whistling wind. Where am I, he wondered.

Rising to his elbows, Myles realized, suddenly, he was a stranger to himself. What was his history, what were his preferences, where did he come from? Was he a vegetarian, a philanderer, gay or straight--he had no clue.

In that cold, crisp Icelandic town, he found a corner bakery. He waited for it to open: just a half-hour more and it would be 7. Then he would go in there and meet a unique woman, the waitress/cashier, who would bring him a nice warm cake and a hot cup of coffee. Icelandic coffee.

His hands were ice blocks. He thought of taking a run through the still-sleeping town. Maybe he would. It'd get the blood flowing. He noticed that his toes were numb, also, and that his feet might in fact be cut off at the ankles. Oh, it’s a strange feeling to be without a name, and then also without body parts.

Why did he flash on a scene in a jungle, with the sounds of lions and other jungle animals calling out to him? Had he been there, and was that a part of who he was before the...accident?

Now, wait: was there an accident? What made him just think there had been? He was now recalling events, moments. They were emerging from a black ocean, rising just below the surface, moments that he could almost make out, like dead bodies bobbing up. But he couldn’t quite see their faces.