Some things go on and on. I’m taking I-10 to see my old friend Mad Jack, who’s been told he has a year to live. Less than a mile ahead, a tractor-trailer tire explodes. As long as they give you appointment dates and deeds—January surgery, April chemo, August radiation, October follow-up—you’re okay, something is being done. Black coils of rubber showering the front, cars braking and veering, me looking for an off-ramp. When they give you a unit of time, you’re screwed. I’ve never witnessed a blowout on a highway, just the rubbery remains. Never saw the unraveling.