A single car came toward us, moving down the hill. My father toggled a rod beside the steering wheel and it gave a satisfying click; the headlights dimmed. Once we passed, he did it again, this time restoring the forest to light. I’d never noticed anyone dim lights for an oncoming car, and I felt a burst of affection for him, seized with an idea of his fineness. (When I told my mother about it the next day, she said everyone did that, everyone dimmed the brights for oncoming traffic.)
