Driving down route 522 at sixty miles an hour this morning. Riding, actually. I glance out of my left window from the backseat where I'm sitting and see a dead deer in the ditch. It must be dead, I reason, for no deer would ever voluntarily lie down next to a highway. Yet the deer is curled up in the ditch, as if she had lain down a few hours earlier, and never woken up. I feel a slight chill on my neck.