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A YEAR AGO this week, I found myself in Shove Chapel on Colorado College’s campus where, at roughly age 10, Mando and I had sneaked in with the idea of drinking from the baptismal font. We had goaded each other right up to that moment, but for whatever reason, it didn’t quite pan out — either the stone basin was dry or we couldn’t find it. The truth is, I already can’t remember. Regardless, we gave up on the font sipping and moved on to the trees outside the chapel, a grove of them, easy to climb, that offered high shade between the buildings in which our parents, CC professors, roamed offices, classrooms, pages.