"Yeah," he nodded. "I ... well ... I came here, to Winchester, trying to live up to expectations. My Dad went here, my grandfather," he shook his head... "They're big on the fraternity thing, but..." Sounds familiar." I rolled my eyes. "Anyway, what do you write?" Oh, everything!" He laughed self-consciously. "Whatever I can think of ... stories, plays. Poems, uh ... prose..." Poems?" I smiled at him in the dim glow of the moon far off. "Tell me one." Oh no, I can't ... I don't remember any," he. When they were first married, she had tried to get him to talk. He would slog home, slump into his overstuffed armchair, and for fifteen minutes he would drink beer and stare at the television. "Nothing," he would snap, "nothing happened."At first she was hurt by his reticence, but she slowly realized it was probably better this way. He needed home to be a haven, a place where the bad never intruded. Six years later and he still dropped in front of the TV after his shift, although he didn't. More

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