I like the way Miller did it, the boy who wore a police uniform to a music festival in the middle of the Berkshires, who ignored the fashion status quo of concert t-shirts and cargo shorts and opted, instead, for a set of play handcuffs at his belt, a miniature baton, a trio of patches emblazoned on a dark blue shirt buttoned all the way to the top. After we met, he pulled a series of violation notices from his pockets, said this one was for parking in a tow zone at the airport, and this one was for peeing in someone's doorway when you were drunk. Nearby, a famous band was about to take the stage. A waft of concert-goers holding plastic cups of beer made a beeline for the field. We stood, Miller and I, at the outskirts, and I thought of all the quiet and not-so-quiet courage it takes to sit at the counter that is your life and ask for what you want, no matter how rich or how sweet.