Up on Trimmingham's pond, in the far north corner of the small village of East Millbank, Connecticut, where Peter and Nina lived with their two young boys, it was still dark. It was summer, before dawn. The wind blew through the trees, but the water was calm.

      The pond stood perfectly still. It was like a pool of black india ink whose edge began a few inches in front of Peter's boots. Puffs of wind pushed through the tops of the trees. He listened to a field mouse rustle the leaves on the ground.

      Peter was lost within this solitary realm that was as much in his imagination as in the world — this great space like an invisible room in the quiet woods …

      A solitary puff of wind brushed across his face. He listened to the whir of his fishing reel, then the plunk of the Silver Flier.

      He looked down at the angry face that stared back at him from the surface of the pond. There in the dark water, reflected beneath the brim of his red wool cap, was the deep frown he'd grown used to seeing each morning in the shaving mirror. Above the pond, the last clouds of night were like black strokes of paint on an artist's canvas. A quick puff of breeze ran its cool hand through the trees, causing a shiver to run up his spine. Yet the pond remained still, its fragile mirrored surface broken only by the plunk of the Silver Flier. He watched the small concentric circles grow wider and wider until they fanned out across the entire surface of the pond, lapping softly against the shore. He reeled in the lure watching it twist and turn like a shimmering jewel swimming toward him just beneath the surface of the water. The breeze brushed across his face and the backs of his hands. Peter was keenly aware of every inch of his surroundings. Nothing escaped him. It was there, in the middle of the kind heart of nature, where he felt at home. He reeled in the Silver Flier watching the nylon line draw a path through the water. So clean, so simple. He kept his attention on the fishing, careful not to let his thoughts stray, his mind swimming with the trout he knew were hiding a few feet beneath the surface of the pond. He had learned not to let the memories intrude. As soon as he felt one about to begin, he'd lock it out. He thought they couldn't be considered real anymore. He wasn't even sure which ones might be true and which were not. So he'd cast out the Silver Flier again and listen for the comforting plunk.

From far off — six, maybe seven miles — he heard the heavy rotor blades of a helicopter beating out their rhythm against the cool morning air. It was unmistakably a Huey, the kind of chopper that carried him to and from the field in Nam. Suddenly he forgot about the fishing. He let the line go limp — the string settling on the surface of the water in a long S. He listened for the helicopter like a deer listening for a predator. He could hear every nuance of the Huey's sound. At about two miles from where he stood, the pilot was decreasing the pitch on the blades, dropping to about a hundred feet above the ground. He knew it was low-leveling, just above the treetops, because he could hear the engine noise being absorbed by the trees. For several seconds its sound almost disappeared. He prepared himself, focusing his eyes at the point across the pond where it would appear. He was dead on. He watched the chopper's prop wash blast the leaves on the tops of the tall maples and oaks. His head tracked back on his neck, his eyes riveted on the Huey. He fixed the image in his mind like a snapshot. It roared across the pond in only a split second. But he saw the skids, the skew of the stern rotor, the hook on the bottom, even the expression on the pilot's face. The chopper flew so low he could feel the heat from the engine settle on his face as it passed. It blew him away. Suddenly his legs went weak. He sat back on the damp ground listening to the noise of the chopper echo off the pond after it had passed. Even after the sound was gone, he could hear it in his head. He had to remind himself that he was in East Millbank, Connecticut. For christsakes, he knew this.

      But he wasn't able to escape the power the Huey had over him. He held his head in his hands. He wanted to cry but knew he wouldn't.