THE HUNDRED-AND-TWENTY-SEVENTH PAGE

If I’d had the slightest doubt that this was Campaign Counterstrike, it would have been erased by the events of the next morning when a snowplow veered with deliberation from its lane in the road and struck the power line pole that supplied my house with electricity. The dog and I were in our usual position in the living room: man on couch with book in hand and feet on pooch. I had thought it odd that the noisy plow was arriving at such an early hour. The village’s plow people usually didn’t make it up the hillside until noon; my own service eventually arrived by about sunset. And overnight snowfall would render the latter’s work redundant. Hey, life in the country. The overhead lights went out and the little red monitor lights of the few remaining appliances in the house winked off. Inside the house it was nearly as dark as it had been when we got up and the rooms were illuminated only by the moon’s glow from the snow. The truck made its escape in the confusion of the darkened lights. I was certain it had not been the work of my plowman who demanded immediate payment off the books for his service. The pattern of the wheels in the snow clearly indicated that the vehicle had come up only far enough to bash the pole, loosen and fell the wiring, and turn around in my driveway.