1985, January, cold. I'm hollow. I walk the salt-and-ice path from the computing lab to the student union. I shuffle towards the dining hall -- a long, train tunnel of a room, over-lit by overhead florescent and smelling of grease and salt and coffee. I drop my worn-out black Jansport backpack on a random table and check my pockets. I have exactly enough money to buy a cheeseburger. Exactly.