Long before the headline, there is a feeling. A chill that has nothing to do with the wind. On a winter night at a wind-battered port, a janitor’s keys rattle against the rail. His flashlight beam catches it: a chalk spiral, stark white under a flickering bulb. The salt air bites. He hears a shoe scuff, just beyond the light.
This is the essence of dread. Not the known threat, but the unnervin...
