Tom Song first met Effe Lajefe at a Boy Scouts camp outside of Missoula, Montana, back in 1972. Of course, Effe Lajefe was not known as Effe Lajefe back then. His “real” name is inconsequential now. They learned to swim in the cold Montana morning. They learned to cook over an open flame. They learned to sew to save their lives for any other reason would have just been too damned girly. They told ghost stories around a campfire. One night, after the flames had been extinguished, Tom and Effe retired to their bunks to dream their respective dreams: one of wilderness, the other of wildness. There was a snapping of twigs and a scraping sound outside the cabin. “You hear that?” “Yeah.” “What was it?” “I dunno know.” “Should we wake the camp counselors?” “No. Let’s just poke our heads out the door and see what’s going on.” “Okay.” They would never speak of what they saw that night. That is, until Effe lay dying on a Santiago sidewalk with a bullet in his head.