He was listening to his neighbor when the wind blew the door open. The spotted dog scratched itself. From then on, he itched whenever the wind blew.

Different parts of his body would itch depending on the time of day, the phase of the moon, and what people were saying. He would scratch first one place and then another, a pilgrimage of irritation, determined in part by the interlocking rhythms of time, in part contingent on the random words he heard.

He left his house to search for a place where the wind didn't blow. He criss-crossed the continents, his path enveloping the world, seeking quiet.

We buried him under that tree up on the hill. Sometimes, when the wind blows, you can still hear him scratching himself.