That night, there was a real bad thunderstorm.

But what woke me up wasn't the thunder and lightning.

It was Winn-Dixie whining and butting his head against my bedroom door.

Winn-Dixie, | said, what are you doing?

He didn't pay any attention to me.

He just kept beating his head against the door and whining and whimpering; and when I got out of bed and went over and put my hand on his head, he was shaking and trembling so hard that it scared me.

I knelt down and wrapped my arms around him, but he didn't turn and look at me or smile, or sneeze, or wag his tail, or do any kind of Winn-Dixie thing; he just kept beating his head against the door and crying and shaking.

You want the door open?

I said.

Huh?

Is that what you want?

I stood up and opened the door and Winn-Dixie flew through it like something big and ugly and mean was chasing him.

Winn-Dixie!

I hissed, Come back here.

I didn't want him going and waking the preacher up, But it was too late.

Winn-Dixie was already at the other end of the trailer, in the preacher's room.

I could tell because there was a sproiing sound that must have come from Winn-Dixie jumping up on the bed, and then there was a sound from the preacher like he was real surprised.

But none of it lasted long, because Winn-Dixie came tearing back out of the preacher's room, panting and running like crazy.

I tried to grab him, but he was going too fast.

Opal, said the preacher.

He was standing at the door to his bedroom, and his hair was all kind of wild on top of his head and he was looking around like he wasn't sure where he was.

Opal, what's going on?

I don't know, I told him.

But just then there was a huge crack of thunder, one so loud that it shook the whole trailer, and Winn-Dixie came shooting back out of my room and went running right past me and I screamed, Daddy, watch out!

But the preacher was still confused.

He just stood there, and Winn-Dixie came barreling right toward him like he was a bowling ball and the preacher was the only pin left standing and wham, they both fell to the ground.

Uhoh, I said.

Opal, said the preacher.

He was lying on his stomach, and Winn-Dixie was sitting on top of him, panting and whining.

Yes, sir, I said.

Opal, the preacher said again.

Yes, sir, | said, louder.

Do you know what a pathological fear is?

No, sir, | told him.

The preacher raised a hand.

He rubbed his nose.

Well, he said after a m— te, it's a fear that goes way beyor_ normal fears.

It's a fear you L can't be talked out of or reasoned out of.

Just then, there was another crack of thunder and Winn-Dixie rose straight up in the air like somebody had poked him with something hot.

When he hit the floor, he started running.

He ran back to my bedroom, and I didn't even try to catch him; I just got out of his way.

The preacher lay there on the ground, rubbing his nose.

Finally, he sat up.

He said, Opal, I believe Winn-Dixie has a pathological fear of thunderstorms.

And just when he finished his sentence, here came Winn-Dixie again, running to save his life.

I got the preacher up off the floor and out of the way just in time.

There didn't seem to be a thing we could do for Winn-Dixie to make him feel better, so we just sat there and watched him run back and forth, all terrorized and panting.

And every time there was another crack of thunder, Winn-Dixie acted all over again like it was surely the end of the world.

The storm won't last long, the preacher told me.

And when it's over, the real Winn-Dixie will come back.

After a while, the storm did end.

The rain stopped.

And there wasn't any more lightning, and finally, the last rumble of thunder went away and Winn-Dixie quit running back and forth and came over to where me and the preacher were sitting and cocked his head like he was saying, What in the world are you two doing out of bed in the middle of the night?

And then he crept up on the couch with us in this funny way he has, where he gets on the couch an inch at a time, kind of sliding himself onto it, looking off in a different direction, like it's all happening by accident, like he doesn't intend to get on the couch.

But all of a sudden, there he is.

And so the three of us sat there.

I rubbed Winn-Dixie's head and scratched him behind the ears the way he liked.

And the preacher said, There are an awful lot of thunderstorms in Florida in the summertime.

Yes, sir, I said.

I was afraid that maybe he would say we couldn't keep a dog who went crazy with pathological fear every time there was a crack of thunder.

We'll have to keep an eye on him, the preacher said.

He put his arm around Winn-Dixie.

We'll have to make sure he doesn't get out during the storm.

He might run away.

We have to make sure we keep him safe.

Yes, sir, I said again.

All of a sudden it was hard for me to talk.

I loved the preacher so much.

I loved him because he loved Winn-Dixie.

I loved him because he was going to forgive Winn-Dixie for being afraid.

But most of all, I loved him for putting his arm around Winn-Dixie like that, like he was already trying to keep him safe.