First, driving home in a domestic Senegal with my mother, we bust a flat and have to knock at the house of Woody Harrelson. He offers to drive us home. His driving is wild and unpredictable but seems to follow a track, even as we collide with multiple cars and come close to igniting our gas tank. Next time (now with a friend) when we bust a flat we know what's coming from Woody: we see the same tattoo, hear the same cheap banter, and with creeping satisfaction accept the same ride which unfolds on exactly the same wild track. The third time (my father is with us now) we drop in like old friends, extend the banter, pushing his cinematic hospitality as far as we can, never asking for help. When he breaks down and offers us a ride, we walk out. Later, Loren is back from England with a hatchback trunk full of piles of used books. We decide to help him sort out the library books for storage, but I'm slowed down by some slim collections of poetry I've never seen before. Even later, what started as a simple baseball toss turns into a kaleidoscope of magic whose only purpose is to prove that there is magic.