The earliest morning before my noon flight, I dream that I am in a small town under attack during deep winter. While the earth sleeps hard and cold under snow, Kalashnikovs cackles. Into the forest dark the adults flee, frantic bodies dark against the twilight-lit snow. I wonder, Where will the children go?

Under the snow, a child replies, emerging near my feet, his head adorned with a cap of snow. Smiling reassuringly, he reveals a network of stone tunnels that had been built under the snow and suggests, gently, that I take my place among them, before they come, he urges.

I say, Fine with me, I'll take a windowless seat.

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