Martha comes with me everywhere. I scotch-taped the cover shut, but the introductory pages and the third section about the horror journey in China still fall out. They’ve dropped in my eggs twice and once knocked over a glass of wine. Wedged in the seatback, though, they’re mercifully anchored.

I love this book like a best friend. I feel physical pleasure at the thought that, if I were to get caught somewhere unexpected — a long bus ride, a delayed train — I would have it there, in my backpack, to pull out and just read.

Every place becomes my place when I have a good book in my bag.