Newt was tooling north on i95 on a soft, gray, misty Monday. His thoughts drifted as the radio station playing the Oldies in Southern Jersey turned first to mush then static. Tonight would be a quick dinner, room service, no doubt and then an early curtain for Annie, Callista’s idea not his. Feeling peckish, Newt turned into the Joyce Kilmer exit, found a parking spot right in front and grabbed a coffee. Conveniently forgetting the vow his cardiologist had extracted from him under duress following another grim stress test, he doubled back and scooped up a mess of fries.