It’s a fine autumn day, as crisp as an apple. Dry leaves scuttle across the road as I drive out of Princeton. A half-hour later I am in the hills of the Sourland Mountains. A mist hangs over the fields; suddenly a rainstorm erupts. Then I see, in the middle of the road, a young woman standing in a pink bikini top and running shorts, her face turned up into the falling rain. I jerk the wheel just in time to avoid her.