Many decades ago, when David’s son, Stephen, and my son, Dan, were 12, the boys somehow had elected to go for 2 weeks to a camp in Maine. I assumed that the Ferrys had approved it (how could that not be a reassuring seal of approval?) and probably they assumed the same about the Mazurs. The Mazurs delivered the boys to what appeared to be an institution for juvenile delinquents—other boys being delivered by social workers or what appeared to be parole officers—and they ran off gleefully while we drove home with dread, to begin making a constant series of phone calls to a camp line that was always busy (the phone surely off the hook). One day, David and I would laugh about it.