Because of me, my granddaughter almost loses a couple of fingers.

We’re driving down a typical New England country road, bracketed with August-green swaying trees. Hawks swing on the tops of those trees, squawking loudly.

To our right is an almost-hidden river where kayakers slowly swing their oars. To our left is dense wood filled with squirrels and woodchucks and chirping sparrows.

“Madre, watch out!” Sophie yells. I ram my foot on the brake.