Many years ago, I was working at my desk in my Corona del Mar home when I got a telephone call from a gruff voice telling me that my wife had been injured in an auto accident and was on her way to Hoag Memorial Hospital Presbyterian. And that I had better get to the emergency room. Pronto.
Janet had left the house in our only car on an errand 15 minutes earlier. When I rushed next door shouting "I've got to borrow your car," our neighbor — and good friend — took one look at me and silently handed over her keys. There was a single outlet from our neighborhood to Coast Highway, and cars were backed up there. I could see my car in the distant intersection with the driver's door open, the door behind it smashed. And in the street, neatly positioned side by side, were Janet's shoes.