April 28, 1995: I've opened a small suitcase on the bed. The window shades are pulled. They usually are, night and day. Their white translucence, though, allows a fine spring light in the bedroom; and as I move from the closet to the dresser, gathering clothes for packing, I feel glad anticipations about the weekend. It's Friday. Early afternoon. In forty-five minutes I will leave town for Wheaton College in Illinois where one of my stories is to receive its first public performance. As good as that--better than that, actually--I'm to meet one of my best friends there, whose full-length play will also be performed. His piece is the real feature of Wheaton's theater festival; mine's a private excitement. My friend's name is David McFadzean. The director at Wheaton is Jim Young, soft-spoken, with talent as deep as tree roots. I'm going to drive. I'll be back on Sunday. So, then: two clean shirts, fresh underwear, a pair of dark slacks; my shaving kit is in the bathroom....