On the radio, Judy Collins was singing “Amazing Grace.” The song, which should have uplifted his spirits, only deepened his sadness. Here he was, estranged from others and from himself, on a distant planet, a prisoner of the Interstate, staring dully through tears at the heartless traffic, the diabolical road lamps, and the crimson clouds that smoldered like funeral pyres at the rim of the world, while trying to hold on to the desperate hope he might recover his life.