At the end of our sophomore year we found an old, seven-bedroom rest home that we could rent for the next school year. It was far from campus, but it was cheap and, more importantly, large enough for all of us.

I was at a crossroads, however. To my surprise and consternation, I had been accepted for transfer to Northwestern. To leave would mean a better education and better career opportunities. And I can't say I wasn't lured by the country club atmosphere that is found at a school like Northwestern.

I had applied for a transfer because I didn't feel I was achieving anything at Oregon. So much Frisbee, so much TV, so much sitting around. Time with friends had been all that was important to me, but I felt there was more out there: academics, success, adventure.

I was wrong. There is nothing out there beyond friendship. Still, after weighing the prestige of Northwestern against the company of my friends, I accepted the offer. First I took 12 months off to become comfortable with the decision. After 12 months, I was.

In my absence, the group grew tighter. Living communally, they were eating of the same bread and drinking of the same plastic cups. I visited them that first winter, but there was a new rhythm. Catch phrases were different, the games had new rules, and I was out of stride.

When the group graduated this spring, I sent them a bottle of cheap champagne and some packets of Kool-Aid. Before any of us was 21, we loved that Kool-Aid.

I didn't get a reply.

When Dan called Tuesday night with the news, he had to call my parents first to get my number.

I tell you this story to tell you another one. Tomorrow.