The snow in Fox River is like a white, blank page on which each of them may write down their wishes and hopes. Most of the time, the soft, cold padding remains untarnished because none of them actually has the chance to make their wishes and hopes come true so when the snow falls again, it coats and muffles everything.
Michael signs the register, tucks his wool scarf in his expensive coat and buries his hands in his pockets. He walks across the alley from the visiting room to the parking lot, thinking brother and devotion and freedom, and he leaves in his wake the faint mark of his steps. He barely notices that the snow has stopped falling.