It was a quiet, cool fall day in Woody Creek. The valley was streaked with flaming yellow Aspen trees, the air hung with a crisp weight, holding hints of winter in the air. In Aspen, the tourists had packed up. The hotels were vacant. Everything felt perfectly still and empty.

Gaylord Guenin arrived at our house in Woody Creek, pulling up in his metal-clanging Suburban, dogs yelping in the back seat, their noses peeking out the windows.

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