Snow poured onto the landscape of Berlin, especially in the rural areas just outside the city to the north where Bruno's personal estate lay in tranquil silence. Midnight had come and passed, and Bruno had been sitting outside, enduring the elements as they passed by—not violently or bitterly, but gingerly, as if the frosty wisps were gently kissing his steaming flesh, keeping him cool while he should long have turned into a boiled lobster.
It had been nearly an hour since Bruno first stepped into the pool of water, one closer to boiling temperature than room temperature—103 degrees Fahrenheit to be precise, or roughly 39 degrees Celsius.
