It’s nearing noon on a raw October day, and Colin Sullivan is in the car, about to pull out of a spot in the parking lot of Long’s Market, this big, squat brick place that’s been in his hometown as long as anybody can remember. He’s got his prosthetic right leg crossed under the good one and his left foot working the gas pedal, and just as he grabs the gearshift and slams it into reverse, releasing the front bumper of his Ford from where it’s bit into the concrete curb—just then on the car radio this familiar old song starts up, just floats up out of the speakers like a happy childhood smell, and Colin’s eyes widen there in the car with recognition and delight.
