Eric pushed himself up through some layers of snow, some layers of frozen sand, some layers of frozen soil. He put his hands on the sheet of the bed. The sheet was cold, and his hands were hot, so the sheet began to defrost as he touched it, and he found himself looking through it, as if it were a windshield of a moving car. The landscape approaching was so weak that Eric could not believe it could stop his sheet’s motion. And indeed, the sheet demolished the landscape as it sailed through it. The trees fell apart, just at the moment Eric thought that he would die smashed into them, die with his flesh jumbled into tree-flesh. The trees fell apart into matches the color of salmon in the earliest light. The sky felt apart into wet flakes of morning, each one thick like a sponge, like a loaf of air thickened by sunlight soaking into it. The weak light of earliest morning soaked into landscape but failed to make it real enough to stop Eric and his sheet. Eventually, he traveled through it all, the orchards, the clouds, the houses made of off-white paper, the air full of bridal soot. He arrived in a place with nothing but summer light and rising dust. The light went deep into him and he wasn’t frozen anymore. And the soot rose up around him and cut the light in half, in half again, in half again, in half and in half and in half until the only light left was coming from inside of Eric’s mouth, from the place in him that remembered the taste of light. And something fell out of Eric’s face, something that gave off light. It was a little blue bed, hand-sized. It was blue and white as if it had been squeezed from a tube of frosting to celebrate the birth of some tiny lucky angel who would curl up inside it and close his eyes, looking so unreal, serene and simplified, as though squeezed from a tube of frosting his sweet self.