Standing outside the Baymont LaGrange Hotel on the morning of Thanksgiving, I was able to see the indoor pool through a set of tall windows by the lobby doors. It had rained the night before and the air was damp and cold and the trees were bare and the groundskeeping had been neglected, so the parking lot and grass were covered with wet brown leaves in various states of decomposition, and the reflection of the leaves in the glass made it appear as though they were floating in the pool rather than littering the ground outside. At first I thought there must have been a hole in one of the skylights, and I was furious, ready to complain to the management, because I’d chosen the hotel specifically for its indoor pool, and I’d even called to make sure the pool would be open on Thanksgiving before I’d confirmed the reservation, and now I felt sure that the whole vacation was fucked. My wife and daughter would be without distraction, and my efforts to get us away from our nasty history with Thanksgiving would be for nothing. It took me longer than it should have to realize that I was looking at a reflection. In fact, I did not realize it at all until my wife, Madeline, called it to my attention.