Love, they say, can move mountains. Less romantically, love has also been known to move mountains of crap. My college friend Logan and his mountain of crap arrived in New York City from Boston in a twenty-three-foot U-Haul truck, complete with the same six wooden peach crates of aging vinyl I had helped him pack and unpack at least three times through the years. He was moving in with his fiancée, Jerri. He came to New York the same year I moved out of my Boston condo and into my parents’ ancestral Manhattan apartment to help care for my ailing father. Our friend Michael also moved to New York that year, to pursue his girlfriend, Susi. We would all end up living within walking distance of each other for the first time since college. We’d all moved for love.