The snows of winter were melting and the grass, though very much dead, was starting to show beneath the formerly frigid covers of the previous months. Stanley opened his eyes and lay in bed, feeling and savoring the feeling of simply being in a bed. Turning over he looked out the windows at the yards of empty frost covered land. Stanley had a sort of aversion to the white stuff, especially when it just went on for seemingly forever, unless it was broken by something. Footprints, the woods that stretched beyond the horizon, a sidewalk. Anything to reassure him that yes, he was outside, he was really outside the confines of steel and concrete that had once been his office space and his prison.
That he was free.
When the blank witness of the outside was undisturbed for as far as he could see, a sick feeling grew in the pit of his stomach that he couldn't dispel. It would remind him too much of the white nothingness that he'd seen far too many times outside the windows of the office as he
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