Outside a florist-cum-coffee shop in upstate New York, a row of vintage cars gleam in the sun. It’s unseasonably warm for early October, so there’s a veritable crowd of car enthusiasts snapping photos of Ferraris, Porsches, and a vintage Alfa Romeo. Patient girlfriends and wives roll their eyes, sipping on maple matcha lattes and eating pumpkin spice donuts.
At my side, my right hand is twitching like I’m a wizard casting a spell. I’m hunched over, bending my head as I stare at a lime…
