Timo Korvensuo felt a brief, sharp stabbing in his back when he woke up. His left arm was hanging through the steering wheel and it was a few seconds before he could move it. His arm no longer felt like part of his body. He waited for a while, looking through the windscreen at the car park, while the pain crept into his arm and from there through his body. Then he sat up straight and thought of another morning many years ago, when he and some friends had been sitting beside a camp-fire in a wood. All night long. After a while some of them had gone to sleep, others had stared at the flickering flames in silence, and he had risen to his feet, murmured a goodbye and walked away. He had made his way through the bushes and trees until he finally found the path through the wood; then he had gone the wrong way and he could no longer find his bicycle. He had a cut that stung on one arm, and with every breath he took he sensed smoke in his lungs. He had walked through the wood for hours, and the whole place had looked exactly the same: trees, paths with other paths branching off from them.
