Ratchet manages a ragged little laugh, pushing his snow-damp hair off his forehead, the cold, wet sensation against his palm so strange it's nearly alien. His hand is still trembling when he drops it away again, but he shakes his head.

"Not a one," he says. "I sure as hell didn't put myself here on purpose. It's freezing." He hesitates for a second, but what the hell.

"You have everything on you now that you did before you left, or got landed here, or whatever? Do you remember?"