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limitless interests, avid curiosity, ready wonderment, hearty enjoyment of existence had so enriched early years.
    But body not person—person gone. Resemblance only underscored absence.
    So too with village: Look quick, see no difference. Bears resemblance to contentedly industrious, unassuming small farm town of happy childhood. Same tall, spreading trees shade same narrow streets; well-kept, comfortably ageless old homes. Old-fashioned streetlights line Main Street's storefront downtown business district, unchanged for 50 years, fronting on classic village square. Hundred-year-old township building centered in square amidst collection of heroic statues, World War One mementos, playground equipment; brightly painted, elevated gazebo for public speakers. Look other direction down street, see own ivy-covered, red-brick school at far end, just across from Y. Next door, Teacher's house looks bright, friendly, inviting as ever in summer-afternoon sunshine.
    But open door, step out onto porch—illusion fades. Popular fallacy attends mystique of small towns: Everyone knows are "quiet." Not so; plenty of noise, but right kind—comfortable, unnoticed.
    Until gone.
    Silence is shock. Is wrong, but takes whole minutes to analyze why wrong; identify anomalous sensation, missing input.
    Strain ears for hint of familiar sound: Should be faint miasma of voices, traffic sounds drifting up from direction of Main Street; chatter, squeals, laughter from schoolyard. Too, is truly small town; farmlands close at hand: Should hear tractors chugging in fields, stock calling from pastures. Should catch frequent hollow mutter as distant semi snores down highway past town; occasional, barely perceptible rumble from jet, visible only as fleecy tracing against indigo sky. Should be all manner of familiar sounds.
    But as well could be heart of North Woods; sounds reaching ear limited to insect noises, bird calls, wind sighing through leaves.
    Visual illusion fades quickly, too. Knee-deep grass flourishes where had been immaculately groomed yards; straggly new growth bewhiskers hedges; softening previously mathematically exact outlines. Houses up, down street show first signs of neglect: isolated broken windows, doors standing open, missing shingles. Partially uprooted tree leans on Potters' house, cracking mortar; crushing eaves, sagging roof. Street itself blocked by car abandoned at crazy angle; tire flat, rear window broken, driver's door hanging open. Closer inspection shows Swensens' pretty yellow-brick Cape Cod nothing but fire-gutted shell; roof mostly gone, few panes of glass remain, dirty smudge marks above half-consumed doors, windows; nearby trees singed.
    And the smell . . . !Had not spent last three months sealed in own atmosphere, doubt could have remained in vicinity. Still strong enough outside to dislodge breakfast within moments of first encounter. And did. Happily, human constitution can learn to tolerate almost anything if must. By time returned to shelter, stench faded from forefront of consciousness—had other problems more pressing:
    Learned what knee-deep lawns conceal. Three months' exposure to Wisconsin summer does little to enhance cosmetic aspects of Nature's embalming methods: Sun, rain, insects, birds, probably dogs too, have disposed of bulk of soft tissues. What remains is skeletons (mostly scattered, incomplete, partially covered by semicured meat, some clothing). Doubtless would have mummified completely by now in dry climate, but Wisconsin summers aren't. At best, results unappealing; at worst (first stumbled over in own front yard), dreadful shock.
    Yes, I know; should have anticipated. Possibly did, in distant, nonpersonally-involved sort of way—but didn't expect to find three bodies within ten feet of own front door! Didn't expect to confront dead neighbors within three minutes after left burrow. Didn't expect so many! Thought most would be respectably tucked away indoors, perhaps in bed. That's where I'd be. I