Published July 21, 2009
New York Times Magazine
We’re hurtling down a wide boulevard in suburban Washington, the kids strapped expertly into their regulation car seats, my wife and I breezily discussing open houses and interest rates, when we hear a plaintive cry from the back seat. “Help, it hurts,” my 3-year-old son says. Glancing at the space directly behind me in the rearview mirror, I recoil. Ichi has absently grabbed hold of the S.U.V.’s middle shoulder strap and wrapped it around his neck. His eyes are popping slightly, as in a cartoon — from suffocation or fear I cannot say.
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