Bill Peterson’s dreams were haunted by the same ghostly newsreel track down the rifle barrel and his eyes screwed tight during the dream and never lost the look of surprise that life should turn out like this. The boy had gone, the man had come but he was not quieted by the inevit­able transition. Whenever he found the frail vacated shells of cicadas he would still turn them over in his hand but now the bulging eyes made him shudder, the transparent claws clutched his fingers. The cicada had emerged from the chrysalis to sing its song.