Only as a story will this make sense. One morning in August, craving company, I walked around the corner from my apartment in Livingston, Montana, and sat down at the counter of Pinky’s Cafe. The place was unusually empty for the summer, which is when Livingston fills with visitors from all over the world. I ordered pancakes and gazed out through the big picture window onto Main Street. There were almost no cars, and not a single pedestrian. The town was sleepy. Dead.
I mentioned this to the café’s owner, who seemed surprised I hadn’t heard the news. The…
