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Narrator: First of all, it was October, a rare month of boys; full of cold winds, long nights, dark promises. Days get short. The shadows lengthen. The wind warms in such a way, you want to run forever through the fields, because up ahead, ten thousand pumpkins lie waiting to be cut. It was the October of my 12th year when the seller of lightning rods came along the road toward Green Town, Illinois, sneaking glances over his shoulder. Somewhere not far back was a terrible storm. Even now, on those special autumn days, when the air smells like smoke, and the twilights are orange and ash gray, my mind goes back to Green Town, the place where I grew up. In my memory, I'm back on Main Street again, among the neighbors who gave me my first glimpses into the fearful needs of the human heart.

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