The firewood burned, but Gerald Wimbledon felt little heat.
The tent was large and made from leather, with its bottom rim running flush to the ground. There should be no air leakage. Nevertheless, he still felt cold, especially his toes, which were frozen almost to the point of being numb.
"Even your piss will freeze in this damned place." He spat and stood up, placing his hands on either side of the table, with the veins on his hands bulging as he lifted upwards and the six-square-foot, solid wooden table was lifted off the ground.
Releasing the table near the edge of the fire, Gerald felt a wave of comfort. He took off his shoes and put his feet over the fire to warm himself. Then he unrolled some parchment, and continued to write the unfinished letter.
"Dear Olivia,
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