The Round House

by Louise Erdrich

I had entered that furrow of remorse—planted with the seeds of resentment—peculiar to young men.

Then again, sometimes a ghost is a person out of your future. A person dropping back through time, I guess, by mistake.

I stood back from my thought. I watched myself think.

The end of thinking occurred.

Now that I knew fear, I also knew it was not permanent. As powerful as it was, its grip on me would loosen. It would pass.