ABSTRACT
we stopped for the night in a motel on Route 66—station wagon, baggage, man, wife, infant child. Hypnosis of highway, anxiety of a day at the wheel, queasiness of too much coffee, and the decelerating relief of finally arriving at—what?—a mark on the map. A shower eased the shuddering fatigue of five hundred and twenty miles since morning. And then my wife and I went for a walk with our three-month-old in her collapsible stroller.
