Why does each evening up here always, in summer, seem to be The way—as it does, with the light knifing low from right to left— It will be on the next-to-last one?
If you had to be out and about as a hurricane was bearing down on New York City, there were worse places to be than in the back of a limousine with Kurt Vonnegut. Especially if you were twenty-three years old...
