Winters in a small college town in South Jersey could be very cold. We rented an apartment on the outskirts of town where a large barren field was adjacent to an unused railroad on one side and a really old cemetery down the street. Some days after class, I would dawdle at that cemetery reading the old grave stones trying to imagine what kind of lives these people led. The railroad had an abandoned rail car just near a main intersection and a convenience store. I would sometimes hide out in that car listening to Depeche Mode and contemplating my existence. I was mostly a lucky guy. I was receiving financial aid to support my college education and had a job on campus and another job at the dollar movie theatre. I lived with two great guys, my best friend John-Michael who shared my love for comic books and dance music and my boyfriend, Scott, who was honest, intelligent and good looking, and surely in love with me. Why then did I feel so alone? My mind always drifted back to the cemetery and the grave of little Davis Wilkins. What was his life like? Did he daydream about escaping the long, cold winters? Did he ever fall in love? Just then, a huge wind whipped up and chilled me to the bone. I hurried home to my astronomy homework.