Like many kids who grew up in the '80s, I learned to roller skate around the age of 10. My first pair of skates were several sizes too big for me, purchased at a yard sale in Sedona, Arizona. They were stiff white leather like figure skates, with no stoppers, and hard wheels that made a sound like gravel being pulverized, but I loved them.

My best friend committed suicide nine years ago today. A few weeks later, I dreamed I was sitting with her in a crowded restaurant, talking and laughing like we had so many times before. She stood up to go and I realized she was never coming back. I reached out to grab her hands, crying and begging her not to leave. When I told a mutual friend about my dream, he said, "We will always be in that restaurant, crying and begging her not to leave us."

Rose appears in the doorway, a tiny girl with a big stage presence. Her straight brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she's wearing black pants and a black short-sleeved shirt. She speaks with animated gestures, like an improv artist, but this is the first and last chance I'll get to observe them. She shakes our hands and repeats our names. Then she says, "My name is Rose. If you need anything at all, I don't want you to be polite. I want you to call my name like you're Jack and the Titanic is sinking! Rose!! Is this your first time here? Cool! Are you nervous?! Are you excited? I'm excited! Put your hands on my shoulders and follow me!"