Twenty-four hours later the ice in Chuuya 's lungs has melted and the world smells different again. Not frozen in a moment of weakness. Not cold and hard. Not slippery. But crisp, like the first staggering inhale of spring air.

Never mind that it 's June. He is merely trying to remain positive while standing in front of his closet and contemplating what to do with all the clothes. The sheep won 't want them, but he could sell them. They will need the money. Or he could leave them here since life on the street won 't have any place for expensive silk shirts and shiny belts in mafia colors.

The only answer that comes to him, even after another five minutes of stupefied staring, is a sigh. Chuuya gives up and turns to Kafka who is nestled in a fort of blankets in the corner of the bedroom, instead.