It didn’t feel like very long at all. At first, when I woke up, I couldn’t remember anything. I couldn’t remember where I was or what I had been doing. I could hardly think about anything except the pain throbbing in my forehead. I was aware that it was dark. I was aware that I was uncomfortable, my face pressed into the cold, rough dirt. I was aware that, somewhere, the wind was blowing—roaring all around me. There was another sound too—a high-pitched wail far away—almost hidden inside the wind. What was it? But before I could figure it out, I became aware of a louder noise: the door rattling, banging on its hinges . . . Then it came back to me. Where I was. What had happened. The tree. The lake. The barn. The coffin. The figure charging through the shadows . . . Harry Mac! I started to sit up quickly—but the minute I did, the throbbing pain above my eyes became a lancing knife of agony. I cried out, clutching my head. Stars and purple blotches flashed in front of me. I sat there on the barn floor, half-upright, holding the bruised place, my body wavering back and forth as I fought down nausea.
