This is how I found myself crying early one morning in January: For the three weeks I had been living in a studio apartment in Daytona Beach, Fla., I had gone running four times a week. On that particular day, I ran down to the beach, turning right when I hit the sand so that I would see the sun rise.
The sight wasn’t new, but on that day I felt so good and warm and light that, just as the sun crested over the waves, that well-worn line from “Annie” blasted through my mind: “The sun will come out tomorrow.” And I burst into tears.