It was the first Friday of spring break, 1984, when I climbed into the bed of Greg’s compact truck, leaned back against the cab, and watched the keg party fade into the distance as we drove away. The engine whined through first gear, then second, and had just dropped into third when the truck bucked underneath me, left the road, and bounced along the rolling lawn of one of the big houses that lined Sunset Drive in Redlands, California. My head smashed violently into the cab, and I lay moaning, faceup in the truck bed.