The rain is coming down in buckets, a torrential downpour like I’ve never experienced, as if a tidal wave is crashing down on my head. It’s Aug. 16. 2002, shortly after midnight, and I’m standing, dripping wet, outside Graceland, where Elvis Presley’s legions of loyal followers are silently waiting to march past his gravesite, one by one, to pay respects. Already a Subscriber? Sign in I’m 41 years old. I have the beginnings of strep throat. I haven’t slept in five days.