Trundle is not quite the right word. When I hear trundle, I think of layers, of wool and dampness, of hitting the road before the sun does, wrapped in a blanket and uncaffeinated haze. One cannot trundle in the summer, and so this morning we did not so much trundle as we did shuffle our way to the car: Haley and I sporting matching pairs of sunken eyelids and cans of Celsius that could not kick in soon enough; my mother, gracious as ever, bright-eyed and cheery at 6:00am, and Lucy, still wear...
