We are pirates. Nice ones, but still with the cutlasses and cannons.
This is how you know.
You slip into an empty classroom, 10 or 15 years later, and you sit at a desk.
You visit your parents one weekend after their house is no longer your house and you join them for Sunday Mass because that’s still the drill on Sunday mornings and you endure 11 minutes of post-Communion announcements from an unfamiliar priest with a soporific voice until he mentions the annual parish open house, immediately following Mass.…
Everything turns on a dime.
Two hours into the search for a missing 15-year-old boy on the sprawling Tohono O’odham Indian reservation southwest of Tucson, Arizona, a garbled voice on the pickup truck radio utters two letters that immediately transform the mission from a rescue to a recovery.…
We are getting the once over. The twice over. Our interrogator leans coolly against the wall of his small office, nudging the brim of his faded ball cap toward the ceiling.
On assignment with the Peace Corps in Bolivia, Walter Poirier ‘00 mysteriously vanished, leaving no clues, a pall of unanswered questions and a wide circle of loved ones who cannot believe he’s gone.