The doors of the movie theater fly open. Crowds of moviegoers pour out. They are somber. A few talk quietly, but none are smiling. Some are crying, while others just sniffle. What has affected them so? Leonardo DiCaprio has just gone down with the Titanic. Next door, a crowd sits in the dark on the edge of their seats. Some have their hands over their eyes. Others suppress a scream. The T-Rex has just eaten a lawyer in Jurassic Park. Across town at the airport, a man sits in the lounge reading a well-worn paperback novel. He turns the pages methodically, his eyes never leaving the pages. Nothing breaks his concentration — the crowds, the blaring loudspeakers, the general hubbub of thousands on the move. On the next aisle another person reads a paperback, dabbing moist eyes with a tissue. A few miles out of town, gathered around a roaring campfire, listeners shiver slightly as they hear a tale of haunted woods and visitors in the night.