I bump along the gravel road on Highway JJ, following my hand-written directions, not trusting my GPS to get me where I need to go. The service is spotty, I’m told. I pull up to an old farmhouse and Holly, a 35-pound tricolor mutt, pushes open the wooden-framed door and races toward me, her tongue hanging out and tail wagging happily. “You must be Holly,” I say, scratching behind her ears. She sits obediently at my feet. The fact that I’m here is bizarre and nostalgic and giv