Legs McNeil loomed over their table, a figure of chaotic energy, his presence an assault on the senses. His hand descended on Noah’s shoulder like a vulture’s talon.

“And who’s this? Your girlfriend? Or perhaps your latest victim?”

Noah laughed nervously, “Woe, friend, I’m just here for the pasta.”

Noah Savett was 14 years old in 1964, a boy of quiet intensity, his mind already a labyrinth of surreal forms and existential musings. His body, honed by hours in the pool, carried an unconscious magnetism that seemed to draw women to him in ways he could not yet understand.