Lake Rodney only the dead have seen the end of war

The world is in ruin; he has been watching the early snowfall for some time, but it isn't snow. It isn't cold enough in the southern reaches for much to gather across the flatlands, anyway. At one point the ghost is drifting listlessly across the hillside—the next, scraping at the dust as it piles upon the earth, but it doesn't have the same crunch as snow. He investigates with a lick, and draws back, offended by the taste. It smells like fire; yet nothing looks so ominous nor infernal to be fire, which begs many unspoken questions. The spirit draws away from the ashen heap and moves towards the water, ignorant of the other body until it is too late; they are drinking, and the boy thinks he is free to roam without being caught. His goal is to go by without disturbing the stranger, but he does not count on the flooded plane of grass adjacent to the water source—his light steps sink in to the mire easily, gripping at his thin wrists, making an obvious sucking noise as he extricates each step.