It was the way the wind blew in that told her something was wrong. Lying there in her bed, the cats asleep in their various play boxes on the floor, the tv casting a soft light--its screen saver slowly bouncing around, the summer air pushed violently through her opened window--past heavy curtains--and rushed along her exposed skin--the force of it whistling in the still of night. Her breath hitched and her skin prickled with goosebumps, the atmosphere around her suddenly charged with foreboding. Ears straining in the darkness, heart thumping hard between her breastbone and the mattress beneath, she listened to the trees rustling outside--garbage cans clanging against their restraints--not a single car passing down the streets. She felt isolated and hyper aware. This was the kind of moment one expected a rapping to occur on their door--having never heard someone, or something, approaching moments prior. Or the type of glaring--instinctual--psychic impr