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"
How
do
they
feel
?
"
The
boy
looked
down
at
his
feet
deep
in
the
rivers
,
in
the
fields
of
wheat
,
in
the
wind
that
already
was
rushing
him
out
of
the
town
.
He
looked
up
at
the
old
man
,
his
eyes
burning
,
his
mouth
moving
,
but
no
sound
came
out
.
"
Antelopes
?
"
said
the
old
man
,
looking
from
the
boy
’
s
face
to
his
shoes
.
"
Gazelles
?
"
The
boy
thought
about
it
,
hesitated
,
and
nodded
a
quick
nod
.
Almost
immediately
he
vanished
.
He
just
spun
about
with
a
whisper
and
went
off
.
The
door
stood
empty
.
The
sound
of
the
tennis
shoes
faded
in
the
jungle
heat
.
Mr
.
Sanderson
stood
in
the
sun
-
blazed
door
,
listening
.
From
a
long
time
ago
,
when
he
dreamed
as
a
boy
,
he
remembered
the
sound
.
Beautiful
creatures
leaping
under
the
sky
,
gone
through
brush
,
under
trees
,
away
,
and
only
the
soft
echo
of
their
running
left
behind
.
"
Antelopes
,
"
said
Mr
.
Sanderson
.
"
Gazelles
.
"
He
bent
to
pick
up
the
boy
’
s
abandoned
winter
shoes
,
heavy
with
forgotten
rains
and
long
-
melted
snows
.
Moving
out
of
the
blazing
sun
,
walking
softly
,
lightly
,
slowly
,
he
headed
back
toward
civilization
.
.
.
He
brought
out
a
yellow
nickel
tablet
.
He
brought
out
a
yellow
Ticonderoga
pencil
.
He
opened
the
tablet
.
He
licked
the
pencil
.
"
Tom
,
"
he
said
,
"
you
and
your
statistics
gave
me
an
idea
.
I
’
m
going
to
do
the
same
,
keep
track
of
things
.
For
instance
:
you
realize
that
every
summer
we
do
things
over
and
over
we
did
the
whole
darn
summer
before
?
"
"
Like
what
,
Doug
?
"
