Normally I lead a nice mayhem-free life. In planning something as innocent as my twentieth class reunion, I never dreamed that some of my classmates would be more interested in causing disconnections than reconnections. I certainly never anticipated the creeping menace that insinuated itself into our lives—oh, so slowly at first—until it infected our whole summer with terror.

Normally the most dangerous thing I do is navigate the 410 loop around San Antonio at rush hour, an activity that always reminds me of lemmings. I find myself surrounded by cars traveling in the same direction at the same pace, and I can't help wondering if we're all racing to the edge.

I used to use this time to make phone calls, but I've found that even with a hands-free cell phone, I need to focus all my attention on the traffic. All too often one of the lemmings—in a heady burst of freedom—swerves into my lane without signaling and with barely enough room to squeeze in.

My name is Sharon Salazar, my last name a gift from my husband, a name that doesn’t reveal my Scandinavian/Welsh ancestry. At the age of 36—almost two years ago—I married my childhood sweetheart, Ryan Salazar. We’re more in love than ever, but I’ll try not to get goopy about it.

The only drawback to our marriage is that I live in San Antonio where I'm a lawyer, an advocate for migrant workers, while Ryan is a high-school English teacher in Zapata, a town 200 miles away. We're together every weekend, otherwise the telephone is our lifeline.

As I plowed my way through the 410 traffic last spring, my only thought was to phone Ryan. That’s the reason I was so impatient to get off the freeway. That and the lemmings of course.

Mayhem was the furthest thing from my mind.