On they trudged through the snow—the mouse who had once been Mighty in show business, and Irene, the aging hockey heiress who had yet to inherit even a hockey puck.
“Almost there, My Lady. We’ll get to the glorious green valley any minute now.”
She groaned and took another step.
They crossed a small ridge. In the distance a line of green pines beckoned.
Almost there. They quickened their pace.
Then a child giggled and gave the globe a good shaking. A blizzard of snow surrounded and blinded the intrepid trekkers.
Irene’s last intelligible words were, “Damn, I hate snow.”