I force myself over to one of the drape-covered, boarded-up slits in the belfry, determined to drown out the intrusive memory with the noise of the storm. But it was too late. Already I can feel my breathing quickening, my limbs trembling, and my sweating beginning again as the buried memory begins emerging and commingling with the recent one. Leaning a foreleg against the wall, I bury my face into my fetlock, trying to focus on nothing but the weather. That wasn’t working, either.