IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG to start comparing the bucolic beauty of the state by day, with its rolling horse farms and verdant, bluegrass pastures, with its indistinctiveness at night. It was like driving anywhere, even upstate New York (except for the complete lack of other vehicles and the plethora of Donald Trump campaign signs, which seemed to stand sentinel in every other field). To tell the truth, I was beginning to nod off when a headlight appeared in my rear-view mirror—just one, a motorcycle, maybe, or a car with a burned-out lamp—and began closing the distance between us. It’s funny because I remember thinking distinctly that it was moving too fast—a cop, maybe—which bore out quickly as the little sun grew—resolving itself, at length, into the working headlamp of a dirty 4x4 pickup. A p
