Outside the house, a shadow moved, an autumn wind rose up and faded away But there was something else in the silence that he heard. It was like a breath exhaled upon the window. It was like a faint drift of greenish luminescent smoke, the motion of a single huge October leaf blowing across the lawn and away.

The Hound, he thought. It’s out there tonight. It’s out there now. If I opened the window…

He did not open the window.

He had chills and fever in the morning.

“You can’t be sick,” said Mildred.

He closed his eyes over the hotness.

“Yes.”

“But you were all right last night.”

“No, I wasn’t all right” He heard the “relatives” shouting in the parlour.

Mildred stood over his bed, curiously. He felt her there, he saw her without opening his eyes, her hair burnt by chemicals to a brittle straw, her eyes with a kind of cataract unseen but suspect far behind the pupils, the reddened pouting lips, the body as thin as a praying mantis from dieting, and her flesh like white bacon. He could remember her no other way.

“Will you bring me aspirin and water?”

“You’ve got to get up,” she said. “It’s noon. You’ve slept five hours later than usual.”

“Will you turn the parlour off?” he asked.

“That’s my family.”

“Will you turn it off for a sick man?”

“I’ll turn it down.”

She went out of the room and did nothing to the parlour and came back.

“Is that better?”

“Thanks.”

“That’s my favourite programme,” she said.

“What about the aspirin?”

“You’ve never been sick before.” She went away again.

“Well, I’m sick now. I’m not going to work tonight. Call Beatty for me.”

“You acted funny last night.” She returned, humming.

“Where’s the aspirin?” He glanced at the water-glass she handed him.

“Oh.” She walked to the bathroom again. “Did something happen?”

“A fire, is all.”

“I had a nice evening,” she said, in the bathroom.

“What doing?”

“The parlour.”

“What was on?”

“Programmes.”

“What programmes?”

“Some of the best ever.”

“Who?”

“Oh, you know, the bunch.”

“Yes, the bunch, the bunch, the bunch.” He pressed at the pain in his eyes and suddenly the odour of kerosene made him vomit.

Mildred came in, humming. She was surprised. “Why’d you do that?”

He looked with dismay at the floor. “We burned an old woman with her books.”

“It’s a good thing the rug’s washable.” She fetched a mop and worked on it. “I went to Helen’s last night.”

“Couldn’t you get the shows in your own parlour?”

“Sure, but it’s nice visiting.”

She went out into the parlour. He heard her singing.

“Mildred?” he called.

She returned, singing, snapping her fingers softly.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about last night?” he said.

“What about it?”

“We burned a thousand books. We burned a woman.”

“Well?”

The parlour was exploding with sound.

“We burned copies of Dante and Swift and Marcus Aurelius.”

“Wasn’t he a European?”

“Something like that.”

“Wasn’t he a radical?”

“I never read him.”

“He was a radical.” Mildred fiddled with the telephone. “You don’t expect me to call Captain Beatty, do you?”

“You must!”

“Don’t shout!”

“I wasn’t shouting.” He was up in bed, suddenly, enraged and flushed, shaking. The parlour roared in the hot air. “I can’t call him. I can’t tell him I’m sick.”

“Why?”

Because you’re afraid, he thought. A child feigning illness, afraid to call because after a moment’s discussion, the conversation would run so: “Yes, Captain, I feel better already. I’ll be in at ten o’clock tonight.”

“You’re not sick,” said Mildred.

Montag fell back in bed. He reached under his pillow. The hidden book was still there.

“Mildred, how would it be if, well, maybe, I quit my job awhile?”

“You want to give up everything? After all these years of working, because, one night, some woman and her books…”

“You should have seen her, Millie!”

“She’s nothing to me; she shouldn’t have had books. It was her responsibility, she should have thought of that. I hate her. She’s got you going and next thing you know we’ll be out, no house, no job, nothing.”