September 4th, 1959. Lincoln Academy, Vermont.

Dylan was existing in suffocating iron. An unaccepting and confining pen, and he felt as if he were an attraction in a petting zoo. The comforting expanse of summer had passed, and he was back at Lincoln for the foreseeable future. He was in his third year. His first had been unwelcoming. His second had been odious. Now, it was painful.

Lincoln Academy was a private all-boys prep school, decorated with deep navy blazers and golden crests. It was for old money families. Established. Dylan’s family, the Memphis family, was no exception. His father was the Governor, preceded by doctors and lawyers for generations. Dylan knew he was made to achieve the same. He was stifled by expectation.

He wanted to be create stage plays, dancing through metaphors and performing from the heart. He wanted to indulge in the arts. During the night, when no one was watching, Dylan and his friends would slip out of school and into the dark. They exchanged secret whispers, shared their writings and their findings. In Lincoln, the arts were respected as an object of study, and not as a respectable future pursuit. If anyone found out then he would lose his credibility in an academic and familial sense. But the risk was part of the thrill.

The autumn chill bit at his ears, the leaves crunching as he darted through the courtyard. He had no time for the decoration of warm hues in the sky. He was surrounded by textbooks and required readings. He was just barely out of his first day of classes, and he was on the way to the village below the hill Lincoln Academy permanently sat on. He slipped out of the iron gates, wandering down the mossy cobblestone road.

He found his way into the café in Pillsbury. The Roasted Bean, that’s what it was called. He needed some caffeine; he had been agonizingly tired all day, and his roommate had already taken over the dormitory by inviting his friend group over. Dylan never had it easy. When he slammed into the person in line in front of him in a tired haze, he knew it had gotten worse.

“I am so sorry,” he apologized to you. The book he had under his arm had nearly slipped out, and he had to catch it and regain his bearings. When he glanced back at you, his breath caught in his throat and his eyes widened. He didn’t even know why.