It was just the same old northern night sky that he had been looking up at his whole life.

And then he looked back at the woman and asked, “Is there something I can do for you?” He hoped he sounded like he was there to help.

The woman turned to East and said, “Oh, no—thank you, though. I’m just here to see the northern lights.”

And then she smiled and resumed looking skyward.

“Okay,” said East, and he wondered if maybe she was one of those astro-tourists he had been hearing about. “Okay,” repeated East. “It’s just that—it’s kinda late.” It was about 8:45, which was late for East but not for the woman. “And you’re in my yard.”

“What?—Oh, no!” cried the woman, genuinely concerned. “I am?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” The woman was definitely from away, East decided, because she said she was “saw-ree” the way people from away did. (Northern Mainers say they’re “sore-ee” like Canadians do.) “I didn’t know I was in anybody’s yard!” continued the woman, sounding flustered.

“Well, you are, but it’s okay—”

“I thought I was just in a random field,” interrupted the woman.

“Well, it used to be a potato field. But now it’s just … my yard.”

“Oh,” said the woman as she looked out over the snowy landscape.

“Well, I hope you don’t mind that I’m here. I’ll see them tonight—the northern lights—and then I’ll be gone. I hope you don’t mind!”

“Is that your tent?” asked East, having espied a dome-shaped silhouette a few yards away from the woman.

The woman looked to where East was shining his Maglite. “Um … yeah, yes!” The woman was nodding and smiling.

“You’ve pitched a tent,” said East blankly.

“Yeah—”

“In my yard.”

“Yeah, so I have a place to sleep after I see them. I hope you don’t mind!”

“Well,” began East. He didn’t really mind or not mind that this stranger had pitched a tent in his yard, but the woman was getting the feeling that he did, in fact, mind that she was there, and she didn’t want to inconvenience him, because she didn’t like to inconvenience people. “Oh, no!” she cried, “You mind, don’t you?”

“Um—”

“Yeah! You do! Oh, no! I’m sorry!” she cried, pronouncing sorry in her from-away way. “I didn’t think you would!” She pulled her cerulean gloves off with her teeth and took a glossy, folded-up wad of paper out of her jacket pocket. “See, I read that … um…” The woman shoved her gloves in her pocket and unfolded the wad of paper, reading from it as she continued. “I read that you wouldn’t mind. See, it says in your brochure that people from Maine live life ‘the way life should be,’ and that, in the tradition of their brethren in rural northern climes like Scandinavia, they’ll let people who are complete strangers like cross-country skiers and hikers and bikers just camp out in their yards if they need to. They’ll just let you.”