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carousel in Oak Bluffs complete with calliope music and brass rings. We followed that up by treating him to a dish of ice cream from Mad Martha's, which he greedily consumed. We plugged some quarters into the ice cream parlor's fifties-style jukebox, and fueled by the sugar, he threw himself into a dance of toddler joy.
    We laughed about it all the way home and somehow even managed to giggle, if somewhat guiltily, when he threw up the sticky-pink ice cream all over his crib.
    Tracy and I sipped wine on the veranda and watched the sun set each night. On mornings when Sam was restless and I wanted Tracy to enjoy the rare luxury of sleeping late, I'd scoop him up and, sitting on the porch, we'd watch that same sun rise up to greet another perfect summer day. I remember the warm paternal satisfaction I'd felt pointing out to Sam the various wonders of a Vineyard morning. There was an osprey, for example, who would glide back and forth across the surface of the sound in competition with the many anglers who rose early to line the shore and fish for stripers.
    Energized by the success of the movie, which continued to play strongly through the rest of the summer, I resolved to get myself in shape—cut back on the beers, lose a few pounds. There's no more beautiful place to jog than Martha's Vineyard, particularly along the winding beach roads of Gay Head. I designed my runs so that in the beginning the ocean breezes would cool me down, and on the second half, gently push me toward home. Near the end of our stay, I decided to go for it and do the entire five-mile loop along Moshup Trail. It was late afternoon on a particularly gorgeous day. A cyclist passed by and offered me a friendly tip of his bike helmet; I was pretty sure it was James Taylor, and I considered that a good sign.
    After a strong start, I began to falter in the home stretch. It was taking longer than I'd expected, but I wasn't worried, just spent. About a half mile from the turn down the dirt driveway to the house, I saw Tracy driving toward me. She pulled over, got out of the car, and waved me to stop. She appeared slightly stricken. “Are you okay?” she asked. I assured her that I was, but that I may have overestimated my stamina; after all, I was almost thirty now. This was meant as a joke, but it did little to alter the expression on her face.
    â€œYou look like hell,” she said. “The left side of your body is barely moving. Your arm isn't swinging at all. I don't think you should run anymore until you get a chance to see a doctor. I think you should make an appointment as soon as we get back to the city.”
    I promised that I would. Tracy gave me a ride the rest of the way home. The Columbia School of Medicine Encyclopedia of Health must weigh about five pounds; far too heavy to pack on vacations. Otherwise, it occurred to me as I took my shower, Tracy would be out there now, furiously flipping through pages.
    New York City—Late Summer 1991
    Upon returning to New York, I dutifully tracked down a respected sports medicine doctor and made an appointment. He was very thorough, and before prescribing a course of physical therapy to treat what I now assumed was extensive muscle and ligament damage from the long-ago date with the hangman, he ordered a series of X rays. The bones and musculature of my neck, shoulder, hand, arm, hip, and leg, the entire left hemisphere of my body, were photographed and examined. As a precaution, they also did a brain scan to rule out the possibility of stroke or a tumor. A routine formality, I reassured myself as I lay, my head encased in the strange tube that is the MRI machine, and listened for twenty minutes to its bizarre cacophony of knocks and pings.
    The doctor assigned a physical therapist to go to work on my neck and shoulder, with attention also paid to the thoracic muscles on the left side of my chest. Finally I was taking care of this situation. While I resolved to be patient throughout the