"It begins like a storm--with that pensive heavy stillness of dead air pressing in, with a soft rustle of the wind just barely stirring in the trees, a bruising over of the summer sky, a somber gray and yellow horizon glittery with lightning, bloated full of thunder, swept by sheets of rain--it begins when old man Krejci bumps his head. And then--like that same storm spent, blown past to leave the ground and the air around feeling new and fresh and...