Tell something to enough people and after awhile you start to wonder if it was ever real. Even if it really happened to you, moved you, made an indelible mark, you become conscious that you've relayed it all before. Certain parts of it become rehearsed. There's nothing more to add. It even bores you. Against your will, a part of your life has been reduced to "just a story." And you reduced to simply one of its characters.

That's what happened in the ten years between the night I met Michael Hedges, and the day Sonja called me at work to blurt out that his body had been found.

Despite all that, and because of it, here is my story.