This little boy is named George. He is 10 yers old living in Bozeman, Montana. The year is 1990, and he has no phone to distract him from playing outside in the bitter winter. The month is December. 1 week after Christmas with his new sled gifted by Santa Claus. The air is cold. 10 degrees farenheit, and his mom had yelled at him to bundle up before heading outdoors. He took off from his house, the white one all the way on the right and said goodbye to his dad David, mom Mary, and sister Katie. He ventured outside into the nearby forest on a safe trail filled with snow. He was heading to a famous hill that rises 20 feet into the air made for a fun day of sledding. Although all his friends were busy, he finds comfort being alone. Along his walk there, the air smells crisp, hurting his little nose as he inhales deep, tiring breaths. He looks up into the air, noting the heavy trees carrying the snow, letting some pieces fall to the ground. His feet crunch treading along the fluffy snow as he leaves a trail of his thick boot footprints in the glistening white. He finally makes it to the hill, but sees the sun dipping below the horizon. Rather than squeezing one sleigh ride down, he takes a long glanse at the hill, turns around and heads home. He retraces his steps to go back, absorbing the familiar scenery around him. The lonely bees nest in the large oak wood tree and the left behind shopping cart hidden in the bushes he used to ride in the summers flying down the same hill with his friends. The sharp wind contrasts his warm memories of the sun blanketing his sweaty body only 5 months ago. He makes it out of the forest, and stares at his house, gratfeful for the journey, ready for the next one.