Logan

Logan could

Logan could hear. Cold, dead silence gripped the air. Which was curiously dry.
It wasn't raining.
Slowly Logan lifted his head.
He lay face down in a snowdrift.
—A snowdrift?
Logan blinked. Then picked up a freezing fistful of white wetness. Snow. In Florida? In July? At four o'clock in the afternoon? He looked up . . .
Towering, stark conifers rose blackly into a night sky. Millions of frozen stars glittered like ice chips tossed carelessly aside by a giant ice crusher. God . . . Logan hadn't seen so many stars since—
He winced, despite a heroic effort not to.
"Well, this sure as hell ain't Ethiopia, now, is it?"
The bite of air in his lungs convinced him the temperature was somewhere down around thirty degrees Fahrenheit. He lowered his gaze to the snow-covered ground. Creeping, ghostly white mist had formed in low-lying areas, obscuring tree trunks and blending in with the snow.
The silence was deafening.
Badly shaken, Logan sat up. Broken bits of magnolia branch lay scattered across crusted snow. Beneath him, Logan found the crushed body of an immature male skink. He picked up the little lizard. Its smooth skin was still faintly warm from the sun it had been basking in just before the rain hit. He stared at it, at his surroundings, for a long, impossible moment.
Then slowly began to wonder just where he was.
Logan snorted