It was 1:14 in the morning. Somewhere past mile marker 42 where the FM signal gives up, turns to white noise, and hands the night over to the crickets.
The fire was down to that stubborn, glowing iron core—wet birch spitting sparks straight up into the black. I was flat on my back in the tall grass, hands behind my head, watching satellites drift between the hemlocks.
That’s when it hits you.
Not a grand epiphany. Just that specific, unapologetic 1996 stillness. No beepers going off in your cup holder. No dial-up handshakes screaming down the copper wire. Just the smell of woodsmoke trapped in your fleece pullover, a cooler full of melted ice, and millions of unblinking stars daring you to make something that lasts longer than the weekend.
I didn’t reach for a sketchbook. You don’t sketch when your fingers smell like pine resin and charcoal. I just burned the silhouettes into memory: the ragged roofline of the screen porch, the crooked dock jutting out into pitch-black water, the lone loon cutting the silence in half.
