Michael caught my eye, a knowing smile curling his lips. Pulling the cell phone out of my pocket, I turned it on and started recording, documenting our annual pilgrimage to McClanahan’s grave every year since freshman year. Damon threw me a beer, and the rest of us cracked ours open. “To McClanahan,” Michael called out. “McClanahan,” everyone joined in, raising our cans in the air. “The first Horseman,” Damon chimed in.
