In the green earth flapping in the sky, a villager calls to Nonan for a warm winter. He enters a calm and dark—the walls from his mother's and daughter's home peeling bark. Nonan surfaces, her numerous, coarse, cold hands shielding him from a vital truth. Then Whaumm redirects the call. Its sheaf of sterile fur chokes him with hot air. It howls, "I should burn your village for a warm winter." The villager cries for Nonan. His tongue burns. A voice calls from Whaumm's pale coat—his daughter, proud of steamed vegetables. Then he hangs up and kisses her.