The road, which seems vast and open, but is in truth bounded and finite, designed to hurl vaguely aerodynamic rectangular projectiles recklessly, endlessly forward, is the world we live in. The tiny bear is us. And we wish, no, we hope, that somewhere out there, a bigger bear is watching, waiting to save us, perhaps right now, on a Friday, this Friday, at this moment, 5:30 p.m. It’s over. This week is over. Where is our bear?