Holding a sick goat in your arms for a long February day is like experiencing a road trip as a child. You have a vague idea of where you're going and why, but no control over the route or how long it will take to get there.

If you're lucky, your seat mate brought some cud to chew and is willing to submit to the boredom of joint napping. Otherwise, it will be a long series of "No, don't eat my notebook. No, don't jump on your mother. No, just no."

The sights alternate between seemingly endless monotony and moments of surprising wonder. Like when the chickens travel far outside their usual stomping grounds and come to call.

You've never brought enough books. Or at least not quite the right books. But it somehow doesn't matter because you end up suspended in an endless now.

And if it's an overnight trip? Well, then you sleep fitfully and wake early, hoping today's road will be straighter, the path less windy, and the destination more clear.

Thank you all for the secondhand hope. It's much appreciated.