One night Jim Tate was driving me through the Pelham Woods and we hit a deer. Being the oversensitive young writer I was, I immediately started fretting, my breath curtailed, and could feel a deep, dark panic attack coming over me. Reassuring me that he saw the deer walk off the injury and then bound into the bushes, Jim proceeded to distract me with every anecdote and story he could tell about all things deer, so that by the time we arrived at our destination, on an imperceptibly far longer route, my mind had turned to a state of acceptance, a little wiser, refusing an embarrassed smile.