“You’re late,” she said. She kicked a bucket towards him. “Start bailing.”
Peter took a minute to absorb his surroundings. He sat in the bow of a small rowboat of unpainted, untreated wood. From what he could see the hull wasn’t even caulked. The horizon was a straight, unbroken line on all sides: grey above, white below. There was light to see by, but no bright spot in the sky to indicate where the sun might be hidden. Indeed, at first at seemed there was nothing at all except the boat and its two passengers. The other passenger was rowing, though it was hard to tell whether it was having any effect. It was the girl again.

“Why am I dreaming about you again?” he asked.
“You’re not,” she said.
“Oh?”
“I’m dreaming about you.”
“Ah,” Peter nodded. “No, wait, what?”
“Never mind that. Start bailing.”
“In a minute,” he said, picking up the bucket as a conciliatory measure. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
She looked herself over in mock examination, lifting first one leg then the other, but keeping up her hands on the oars. “Yes, you’re right, it is me.”
“No, I mean it’s you. Ashlyn. From yesterday. I thought you said your name was Alice.”
“I thought you said your name was Peter?”
“It is, here.” He hadn’t meant to say it, but once he had he realised it felt true.
“There you go, then. Now start bailing, unless you want us to sink.”
He frowned, but hefted the bucket anyway and started ladling mounds of pure white snow into the boat.