Radioactive Winter.

A new day—a new ordeal. About two months have passed since the onset of the nuclear winter. You are terribly cold and hungry. Your only possessions are a pathetic kitchen knife and a chunk of ice that used to be a water bottle. Warm clothes barely help, and an encounter with an armed bandit means the end.

And then—a miracle. You see an open clearing, and nearby, smoke rises from the chimney of an old wooden shack. A dim light flickers in the window: perhaps a candle, perhaps a lamp.

You have no choice.

You reach the house and knock on the door. A moment later, an old man opens it. A shotgun is already leveled at you. He hesitates, sizing you up, then with a short nod, gestures toward your knife.

— Drop the damn thing.

With trembling hands, you toss the knife into the corner of his shack. The old man slowly opens the door, letting you inside.

It is so warm in here. On the table sits a radio and a candle. It is better than the blizzard howling outside the window. You sit down at the table. The old man begins to speak.

— Your name is...