He remembers "waking up" choking, frantically clawing at his throat with his hands, desperate to free the blood trapped in his windpipe—only to find his airway empty, and his skin cold. He remembers circling the scene of the murder, searching for himself, heedless to the fact that his boot-soles went unstained, the white snow left untrampled by his footsteps.

Snow would later tell him that he was calling for White all along—that White just didn't hear him, or see him, but that's not how White remembers it. In his memory, he is alone with the red snow in a blizzard that he cannot see past. He is alone, scraping his throat raw with screaming, his hands searching uselessly along his cold, dead wrists for a pulse.

It is his only memory of true solitude.