The entire experience of being here was surreal, like Dorothy falling asleep in Kansas and waking in Oz. I’d been walking past the crumbling remains on Observatory Hill, heading into class in McCone Hall, when I’d gotten the call from Aunt Julia. And now, only fourteen hours later, I was in a rented car heading north to Watankee, Wisconsin. There had been no mistaking Aunt Julia’s voice, although it was raspier now, with large, wheezy pauses between her words. She was sorry to have to be the one to tell me, she said, and I’d fought my way through a throng of students to lean against a wall, trying to focus on her words. “Who?” I’d asked, already knowing and dreading the answer. “He had a heart attack,” she’d answered softly. “It was very sudden.” The news had sent me into a flurry of activity—contacting the dean, cancelling class for the week, packing, leaving a note for my roommate to please feed my cat.
