I happened to be the first person Howard told that his wife had died. This was about five years ago. It was late, the office largely empty. I had been making a point of checking in with him before I left. His wife, Emily—the rock upon which his world rested—had been in and out of the hospital with stomach cancer. Most nights Howard left early and was at the hospital, but he’d had a meeting about a terrorist attack in Kabul. I stopped by his office to find him standing by his desk, coat on, one hand on the phone.
