By the 10th hour of the traffic jam, we’d started befriending our fellow frustrated drivers. By day 22, we’d built bathrooms and showers, using donations from a potable water truck and a flatbed of flattened boxes. Day 135 marked our first wedding—he moved into her SUV, kindly donating his Jetta to some teens who’d turned 16 in the jam. There were kids, affairs, divorces, the grade school in half a modular home. Rumor has it that a few hundred miles up, traffic’s starting to move again. But I hope not—I grew up in traffic, and this is all I know.