Camping for the Night East of Salt Lake City, 1972 After three days of driving from New York, we stopped at a Utah state park for the night, our bodies thrumming from the ancient Valiant. Too wired to sleep, we sat around the campfire, and since I’d admitted to a Masters in Lit, Dwayne, Eva, and Brendan cajoled me into telling a horror or ghost story: “The Cropsey Maniac,” the scary favorite at the Catskills camp where I’d been a counselor: A burned-down mansion and a madman avenging his bride’s death by fire-careless Boy Scouts. I held the flashlight under my ghoul’s face while I croaked the fate of the doomed troop. Had this been a horror movie, my tale would’ve conjured Dr. Cropsey into stalking us, picking us off one by one. Instead, we woke to the sun’s first eye-stabbing rays, stretched to unlock stiff backs, and sat on logs, drinking hot tea: too many horrors back in New York City and Vietnam for us to be bothered by a cackling maniac gripping a scalpel.