You knew Henry Winchester well—albeit from far away, you knew him. He was an old boy, a jock—and not very smart. But, he was very sweet. And much nicer than the boys in his year. Your brother, Amberson, was Henry’s roommate, so you saw him quite a bit.

On a chill autumn weekend morning, I sat at home on the couch, reading. I was surprised to hear a knock. I was even moreso surprised when it was The Mighty Winch at my door. “Henry?” I gaped. “Amberson isn’t here—“