We fall into step easily on Riverside Park’s cracked pavement, led by Palm Tree, who darts left and right at every new winter smell that the city provides. The brightness of the sun, the touches of Valentine’s Day decor on the stoops, and the easily fashionable hipsters in striking scarves and jackets seem to brighten the colors. It’s one of those days where everyone could probably take an amazing photo without much effort.

“They did invite me to interview a while back.” One of the many emails I’d opened and discarded, refreshing for a new notice from Columbia instead.

“Why haven’t you agreed to see them?”

I stop and think. Because I didn’t want Columbia to think I was too serious about other colleges? Colleges are conscious, telepathic organisms, and the second I stop actively wanting to attend CU is the second the CU hive-mind turns its back on me?

I don’t say that part out loud because, in hindsight, it wasn’t the sharpest logic out there. Instead, I give a hapless shrug.

“I’m not sure I would fit in Canada, eh? Although lumberjacks are insanely ripped but at what cost?”

“Oh, stop it. My aunt lives in Montreal. It’s an amazing city.”

I shrug. “They have good programs. But I don’t want to give up on Columbia yet.” I throw my head back in a way that causes Palm Tree to tilt his.

“That’s ridiculous. Interviewing for another college doesn’t mean you’ve given up on—”

“I know, I know,” I say, rudely interrupting because I have no idea how we ended up in this conversation and part of me already wants out. “I know it’s not logical, Troy, but accepting a non-Columbia universe feels like I’m letting my dad down. Giving up on the great Haltiwanger Hunger.”

“The what now?”

As soon as we enter the dog run, Palm Tree and a young, dark, almost red golden retriever slam into each other’s necks and take off for what will undoubtedly be the time of their lives. It’s going to be a heartbreak to separate them in a few minutes. It always is.

“It’s what my dad calls it,” I finally explain as we settle on a bench to watch them. I spot Gigi on the opposite end of the dog run, headphones in and two huskies vying for the roped tennis ball dangling from her belt. She waves at me from afar, and I return it with a nod.

“The Great Hunger that got his Grampa from some little shack in Gonaives, like the backwoods of Haiti, to Port-au-Prince, the capital of Haiti, to New Jersey, to the Bronx, and now Manhattan. I think he looks at me and sees a penthouse next. With a wall of framed Ivy League diplomas.”

Corinne listens, eyes on the dogs, without saying anything.