When I was twelve our family went on a road trip to Boston. Charlie and I in the back seat of the Monte Carlo, and our parents in the front seat. This was before DVD players and hand-held electronic games, so entertainment was limited. There are only so many cows to count, state's licence plates to tally, and letters on signs to find. It was more than any eight and twelve year old boy could handle. This left only two things for us to do, fighting with each other and tormenting our parents. We were somewhere in the middle of Canada when my dad had had enough. He pulled over and left us on the side of the road. Normally, for a child this would have been pretty traumatic, and for my little brother it was, "what are we going to do?!" he asked, all teary eyed. I, on the other hand, was far more jaded than my naive little brother. "Come on Charlie" I said, "let's start walking the other way. We are in the middle of Canada, what's he going to do, leave us?" Lucky thing I had Charlie with me or my mother would have probably convinced my dad to keep on driving. Fortunately, he did come back, we poured back into the Monte Carlo and continued east. We were surprisingly well behaved and I had to learn to smile on the inside the rest of the way to Massachusetts.