On this clear, cool daybreak in early June, Norman Sanger gazed out the picture window in his living room and felt that the scene before him might as well be a form of ethereal mockery aimed at him from the natural world. He was a painter and often thought in terms of color and nuances of color, and it was a beautiful morning. But there in front of the house was his son’s ratty old Thunderbird—askew, muddy, wrecked.
You couldn’t look past it.
