While not as revelatory as my 10-year high school reunion, my collegiate 10-year is equally enjoyable. And my story is better this time around. Four years ago, I was living with my parents, about to drive west with no plans, no place to live, and no job. Now, I am a published author, two months from getting married. That’s a bit easier to talk about over cocktails.

Later, as I walk around my old college campus alone, I am flooded with memories, both real and imagined: the good news I received on that flight of stairs, the longing I felt as I walked behind that dormitory, the dream I had involving that bike rack. Old neurons are firing.