I was coming through Vermont once on a hot day in late august, coming down this winding road out of the mountains, with the hot sun and the humidity filtering through the dense web of leaves and tree limbs above. Then, there, right out in the open sun, was this river, maybe twenty or thirty yards wide.

It’s one pm on Monday. The reverbs from Dave’s guitar are thumping through the walls of our apartment, sound waves riding on the drafts window to window – from the living room all the way across the kitchen then through my bedroom and out into the alley on the warm, breezy, sunless afternoon.

Nathan is screaming, clapping, and laughing. The thirty year-old’s wheelchair is tilted on it’s hind quarters, the crowd in front of him scrambling to get out of the way – women spilling their drinks, bumping into slot machines, alcohol splashing onto the carpet.