Many moons ago, Stephen Gilpin found himself sprinting down New York City streets at night, weaving along sidewalks choked with pedestrians and darting onto the street to avoid oncoming traffic. He was late for a movie, and in Gilpin’s mind that was no reason to call a cab, catch an express train, or just walk a bit faster. It was reason to run.
Once at the theater, Neil Magnuson, a fellow Iolan who had reluctantly trailed a sprinting Gilpin, looked up at him with a crazed expression. “You’re like a wild animal,” Magnuson panted. What in the world was someone like him…
