We could see the macabre ceremonies unfolding along the little avenues and cul-de-sacs of the massive suburb we passed through on our way into Windsor. People were out on their driveways and sidewalks, sitting in circles on lawn chairs and stools, holding up flashlights to their faces – faces that were profanely animated or contorted by a terrifying rapture.
“Look away,” I said to Otis. “Just keep your eyes on the road, brother.”
“Okay, okay,” he replied, his voice trying to hide his panic.
The ritual appeared to be exactly as described to me in the pages of Macleans magazine and on CBC’s As It Happens. With our windows rolled up we could not hear what these assembled conclaves were talking so vigorously about, but we knew. The hordes did not thin out as we approached Windsor proper
