On a white beach littered with ground‑up coral and broken bones, a wet group of naked children of varying skin tones walk together, collecting flotsam with a torn sack. They chant “Snowman, oh Snowman” and bring a assortment of objects—hubcap, piano key, pale‑green plastic bottle, empty BlyssPluss container, ChickieNobs bucket, a broken computer mouse—displaying them as if for sale. Snowman watches them from under a tree shade, wrapped in a decaying sheet, sucking on a mango and holding his broken watch. He comments that the items are “things from before,” assuring the children they are safe despite occasional hazardous finds like motor oil or bleach. The children, curious about his appearance, repeatedly ask why moss grows from his face and whether they can obtain feathers like him; Snowman answers with the same rehearsed story about feathers. When the youngest begs for feathers, Snowman pretends to consult Crake, holds his watch to the sky, then declares, “Crake says you can’t. No feathers for you. Now piss off,” using a profanity the children do not understand. The children, confused and frightened, run away along the beach, leaving Snowman alone under the trees.