perceived was the thing the old man had spoken of—snow—he could look out and down a great distance.
He was up high someplace. The ground was thick with the furry snow, but he sat slightly above it on a hard, flat object.
Sled, he knew abruptly. He was sitting on a thing called sled.
And the sled itself seemed to be poised at the top of a long, extended mound that rose from the very land where he was.
Even as he thought the word “mound,” his new consciousness told him hill.
Then the sled, with Jonas himself upon it, began to move through the snowfall, and he understood instantly that now he was going downhill.
No voice made an explanation. The experience explained itself to him.
His face cut through the frigid air as he began the descent, moving through the substance called snow on the vehicle called sled,
which propelled itself on what he now knew without doubt to be runners.
Comprehending all of those things as he sped downward, he was free to enjoy the breathless glee that overwhelmed him:
the speed, the clear cold air, the total silence, the feeling of balance and excitement and peace.
Then, as the angle of incline lessened, as the mound—the hill—flattened, nearing the bottom, the sled’s forward motion slowed.
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