// By Delilah Summerer
Dimitri missed walking through the streets of Greece, letting the summer heat rake through his clothes, the wind flowing around him before heading off to flutter through the treetops. Iceland was nothing like that. Part of it was that it was February. Snow covered the ground. Cold smacked his ears, wrapped around his body, leaving him more of an icicle than a boy. Was he a boy? He was 18, boyhood ripped from him. The people who kidnapped him called him Mitya. That wasn’t his name. His pare...