When I was growing up with three sisters, we piled into a series of station wagons for regular road trips from our home in Florida. We drove to North Carolina for summer camp and Thanksgiving vacations. We drove to small towns in Tennessee and Virginia to visit relatives. Sometimes we drove about an hour away, to a tiny lake house down a weedy driveway. That road trip was short, but often memorable, with a surprising amount of animal encounters. Once we picked up a box turtle plodding across the road. We named him Sam and fed him scrambled eggs. Once we made the trip with a box of kittens, one of whom I took out to let sleep on my lap. Then she threw up, and, to my dismay, we just kept driving. Usually I rode with a book in my hand, and the trip took me far off whatever road we were on, to places altogether different. I'd come to with a jolt when we turned off the road, and it would take me a minute to remember where I was.