We drew the yellow squares of windows; we drew the sound of a stream; we 
drew the camp fire; we drew the smell of the ocean. I turned a page of my 
sketchbook, and heard my friends turning theirs—the sound of charcoal scraping 
paper. Sea lions barked, a door slammed, a woman moved away from us; the 
light from her flashlight wobbled through the dark. I realized how much I’d 
missed, spending so many nights indoors. The moon varnished my car and 
made its steel hood shine.