“And maybe it was the way the glassy surface of the lake rippled out of rhythm that made me uneasy, and maybe it was the hole in the left pocket of my jeans, and maybe it was really nothing at all, just a bad feeling.  But bad feelings come from somewhere don’t they?  Maybe it was the way the stop lights still swung in the wind, maybe it was the low-hanging power lines.  Maybe it was every single wire that could be cut or fall or strangle.  And maybe it was the knowledge that while I had chosen to come home, coming home isn’t ever really a choice, is it?”