In a circle of oak not far from the river Aisne, in northern France, Coal sat and slept, leaning against a tree for twenty-two years. As the snowflakes changed to cowslips and crocuses, and falling leaves turned to snow once again, he must have dreamed. But when the boy woke him, scraping at the gold watch buried in the palm of his hand, the only dream Coal could remember was about the bottle of cognac. He could still hear it shatter as it fell to the marble floor of the restaurant.