There’s this new show on HBO I’ve been watching, The Night Of. It’s managed to completely capture me after just three episodes, but in a horribly uncomfortable way. Most of the show is from the perspective of a college-aged young man in New York City. He appears to be a really thoughtful, smart, hardworking kid who loves his family deeply. The show follows him as he takes a few risks one evening, no worse than anything you or I have done in our youth, and ends up wide-eyed and trembling with utter terror in cuffs in a holding cell, under suspicion of committing a murder it seems he did not commit. As you follow him through the events that lead up to this, your body can’t help but fill with the turbulent boil of adrenaline. The hairs on my arms stood on end, and my eyes glassed over watching this naive, nerdy kid whose mom still does his laundry, stumble into a situation he may not get out of. With my heart pounding, I couldn’t help but coach him from my end of the television screen, clutching a pillow and trying to ignore my racing heart. I felt for the kid. I feel for the kid.