| TheWind | By Ray Bradbury |
This is dedicated to those who have lost the game of the elements, by one who has always escaped . . . until tonight.
John Colt was awake and listening. . . .
Moonlight sluiced into his room by the huge triple Window fronting the upstairs of the house, fell across his sharp, questioning features.
The wind moved far away in the night, and Colt's lips worked as he listened to it; moving stealthily and mournfully from the sea, approaching the house as surely as mighty horses hooves.
Colt's body shivered, hairs stood erect upon his neck, and goose-pimples clustered on his limbs. He knew why he felt this way. After ten years he could believe nothing else.
He knew the wind was coming toward him—and he slipped from bed, thrust himself tremblingly into a robe, found carpet slippers and ventured downstairs to await its arrival.
He went to the phone, thinking, "This
