Three months later, Ken called.

As soon as I heard his voice, I knew Mike was gone.

Ken did all the talking, and I asked no questions. He told me that Mike had died earlier that morning from complications arising from chemotherapy, and he asked me to please come home.

As I drove from Ann Arbor to Washington, DC, for Mike's funeral, my conscience gnawed at me. It would've taken five minutes to tell Mike how much his friendship meant to me, how much he taught me, how much of a difference he made in my life. It would've meant so much to him to hear me say that.

But instead, it wasn't until I was 3,000 sleep-deprived miles away, standing in a strange city at the opposite edge of the continent, that I could finally say good-bye to Mike.