Stormy Weather

Hood’s odyssey across the front lawn of Silver Meadow and into his own driveway, down that meandering path and into the house was as heroic as anything from the epics of the past. He wasn’t quite as execrable as he thought. The magic involved was not visible to the naked eye. There were no swords or orcs or dragons or elves or rings in this adventure, but it was magic anyway. Hood had been transformed on Saturday morning from a self-pitying and disliked and hung-over securities analyst into, however briefly, an agent of sympathy. On the other hand, which life wasn’t heroic? Just living was heroic. Just talking to your family in the moring, before coffee, was heroic.

The Ice Storm
Rick Moody