I’m at work when Lenny tells me that Jeff Cuttner has died. His news arrives as the innocuous chime of an instant message, the intermittent soundtrack of my empty office. It’s a link without context, and it takes me a minute to make sense of the Florida daily-news website that subsequently pops open. The entire article is barely a hundred words. A car accident, four in the morning, driver suspected to be asleep at the wheel. And Cuttner’s stats of course: six-foot-five, three hundred ten pounds. The article closes with a quote from his agent, calling it a tragedy.