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slowed down. A light drizzle had begun, chilling the night. In the glow from the warmly lit office I could see Soc's shape through the misted window, drinking from his mug, and a mixture of anticipation and dread squeezed my lungs and accelerated my heart beat.  
    I looked down at the pavement as I crossed the street and neared the office door. The wind gusted against the back of my neck. Suddenly chilled, I snapped my head up to see Socrates standing in the doorway, staring at me and sniffing the air like a wolf. He seemed to be looking right through me. Memories of the Grim Reaper returned. I knew this man had within him great warmth and compassion, but I sensed that behind his dark eyes lay a great unknown danger.  
    My fear dissipated when he gently said, “It's good that you've returned.” He welcomed me into the office with a wave of his arm. Just as I took off my shoes and sat down, the station bell clanged. I wiped the mist off the window and looked out to see an old Plymouth limp in with a fiat tire. Socrates was already headed out the door wearing his army surplus rain poncho. Watching him, I wondered momentarily how he could possibly have frightened me.  
    Then rain clouds darkened the night, bringing back fleeting images of the black-hooded death of my dream, changing the pattering of the soft rain into bony fingers drumming madly on the roof. I moved restlessly on the couch, tired from my intense workouts in the gym. The Conference Championships were coming up next week, and today had been the last hard workout before the meet.  
    Socrates opened the door to the office. He stood with the door open and said, “Come outside--now,” then left me. As I rose and put on my shoes, I looked through the mist. Socrates was standing out beyond the pumps, just outside the aura of the station lights. Half-shrouded in darkness, he appeared to be wearing a black hood.  
    I was not going out there. The office was like a fortress against the night--and against a world outside that was beginning to grate on my nerves like noisy downtown traffic. Nope. I wasn't going out. Socrates beckoned me again, then again, from out in the darkness. Surrendering to fate, I went outside.  
    As I approached him cautiously, he said, “Listen, can you feel it?”  
    “What?”  
    “Feel!”  
    Just then the rain stopped and the wind seemed to change directions. Strange--a warm wind. “The wind, Sot?”  
    “Yes, the winds. They're changing. It means a turning point for you--now. You may not have realized it; neither did I, in fact--but tonight is a critical moment in time for you. You left, but you returned. And now the winds are changing.” He looked at me for a moment, then strode back inside.  
    I followed him in and sat down on the familiar couch. Socrates was very still in his soft brown chair, his eyes riveted upon me. In a voice strong enough to pierce walls but light enough to be carded by the March winds, he announced, “There is something I must do now. Don't be afraid.”  
    He stood. “Socrates, you're scaring the hell out of me!” I stammered angrily, sliding back in the couch as he slowly came toward  me, stalking, like a tiger on the prowl.  
    He glanced out the window for a moment checking for possible interruptions, then knelt in front of me, saying softly, “Dan, do you recall that I told you-we must work on changing your mind before you can see the warrior's way?”  
    “Yes, but I really don't think…”  
    “Don't be afraid,” he repeated. “Comfort yourself with a saying of Confucius,” he smiled. “Only the supremely wise and the ignorant do not alter. “Saying that, he reached out and placed his hands gently but firmly on my temples.  
    Nothing happened for a moment then suddenly, I felt a growing pressure in the middle of my head. There was a loud buzzing, then a sound like waves rushing up on the beach. I heard bells tingling, and my head felt as if it was going to burst. That's when I