It wasn’t our first contact, but that third-grade argument in our school’s basement cafeteria is the earliest interaction I remember. It’s my only memory of Paul from elementary school. Seated across from each other, we presented our facts. “This is the number,” he said, referencing a small notepad. “Twenty-nine thousand and two feet.” I said, “You’re wrong. Mount Everest is 29,029 feet high. The Guinness Book of World Records.” I had memorized the figure, and I said it the way Mr. Spock might say it, my voice flatly logical, making the fact unassailable. He blew air up, shifting the blond-brown