It was vacationing on the Greek island of Corfu for about a month in August of 1992. I rent a motorcycle and head into the interior of the island in search of isolated1 trails and sleepy villages. I rode for hours along dirt trails flanked by bright yellow wildflowers, over steep and rugged2 hills, and past wide fields where farmers struggled to grow anything that would take root in the barren, rocky soil. I had to keep a close watch on the gas tank because there were no gas stations anywhere except at the village where I had rented the motorcycle. At half a tank, I had no choice but to turn back.
The needle had just hit halfway3 and I was turning around to head back when I noticed an old cemetery4 in the distance, far away from any village or other sign of habitation. I decided5 to stretch my legs before beginning the long trip home. I rode to the gate, killed the engine and laid the bike down. As I passed through the creaky, wrought6 iron gate, I couldn't help but notice how silent the place was. I had to whistle to reassure7 myself that I hadn't gone deaf. There were only a few hours of daylight left and a strong wind was blowing, stirring the overgrown grass which partially8 obscured the scatt
