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He awoke startled. A close observer would have noticed his eyes open halfway and shift from side to side; his breath caught a moment then went back regular. He closed his eyes. The dream was as so many times before. He stood in the snow; the man put an arm across Viktor's shoulders, his other arm swung toward him as though to complete an embrace. He had a knife arcing straight for Viktor's heart. Viktor had his own knife. His knife didn't waste the time of a free-floating arc. He punched straight across his body, straight into the man's chest, somewhere above the heart. The man's arm never completed its motion, never reached Viktor. Viktor punched his knife into the torso twice more, below the heart, then into the liver. The man didn't look into Viktor's eyes. He looked toward his daughter, twenty-one years old, on her knees in the snow, ten feet away. Viktor let the man slip down. He held his knife at his side; blood dripped onto his shoe. The girl, a bruised chin, what had been anger on her face turned now into horror or something worse, crawled to her father and touched his hair - his hat had fallen off when he hit the ground. Her breath smoked in zero degree air. She looked up at Viktor, her eyes catching his. That's when he woke.