Five months into filming Dead Poets Society, the cast felt like a tight little tribe. We weren’t strangers anymore—inside jokes, late-night hangouts, the kind of bond that only comes from living in someone else’s story together. I was 17, not the youngest, but definitely not the oldest, floating somewhere in the middle. One afternoon, Gale Hansen dropped into the seat beside me during a break, looking unusually unsure. “My wife’s birthday’s coming up,” he said. “And I’m blanking. Any ideas?” I looked at him, surprised. “You’re asking me?” He shrugged, half-smiling. “You’ve got good instincts.” I smiled