I got out of bed and ran toward the door, knowing that the high-amplitude surface waves, or ground roll, would be next. Pots fell off an open kitchen shelf; a wardrobe teetered. I thought of the students in the other houses, whose brittle stone walls, centuries old, now seemed sinister rather than quaint. Then, abruptly, the earth was still again. Dogs and roosters raged in noisy protest. I tried to go back to sleep, but several large aftershocks rippled through in the hours before dawn, as if the earth, after pausing, kept remembering that it had more to say. Each time, the dogs howled and the roosters crowed. At daybreak, we heard that aggressive wild boars, disoriented by the tremors, had fled the forests and were running through the nearby fields and villages. Local boar hunters—cacciatori di cinghiali—were out shooting them or flushing them back into the woods. The strange threat of the boars heightened the sense that the placid present had intersected with an ancient, feral past.