“Damn! DAMN!” Edgar rolled over and pulled the pillow tightly over his head to block out the sounds of passing vehicles.

Their ‘country home,’ as they called it, was only large enough for Edgar Junior’s crib and the two of them, provided they didn’t want to sit down.

“Are you alright, dear?” whispered his wife, Liliane.

“Oh…I didn’t mean to…”

“You didn’t. I’ve been awake for awhile.”

Edgar tossed the pillow into the corner of the screened-in porch before sitting at the edge of the cot facing her. “How long have we been coming up here, 10, 15 years?” Picking up his spectacles from atop the novel “Work of Art” by Sinclair Lewis on the floor beside his cot, he put them on.

Pushing her pillow under her, she propped herself up with her elbows. “It’ll be twelve, tomorrow...