In about ten minutes they reached the path that led up the little hill to Skyview Park. The path had been plowed already—probably by the buncha hippies so they’d be ready if any experts showed up to deem Almost a dark-sky destination.

It was a little before 7:30 when they reached the observatory platform and its red wooden bench, both of which the hippies had also cleared of the snow that had fallen earlier in the day.

Ginette and Pete clicked off their flashlights and slid them into their backpacks and sat down on the bench—Ginette on the west side of it; Pete on the east side. They tucked their backpacks underneath them and then sat up and looked out across the snow-covered potato fields that stretched endlessly to the north in front of them.

And then they looked up.

“Wow,” said Pete.

“Yeah.”

An uncountable number of stars twinkled above and in front of and behind and all around them. They felt like they were close enough to touch and far, far away—all at once.

The Milky Way’s thick band of stars arced overhead. It made the universe feel infinite. And it made the stargazers feel infinitesimal.

And humble.

The northern night sky will do that—make you feel humble. Because when you can see as many stars as Ginette and Pete could see, you can’t help but realize that there has to be more—much, much more—than just … you.

As Pete gazed skyward and took in the spectacular northern night sky, he wondered why he hadn’t ever gone to the observatory before.

It was probably because he felt like there was so much he needed to learn about the Earth that he didn’t have time to pay attention to the heavens.

But still—he should have been aware of the majesty above him. And he turned to Ginette and confessed, “You know … I don’t think I’ve ever done this.”

“Done what?”

“Just … sat outside. Looked at the stars.”

“I think a lotta people here don’t.”

Ginette’s dad used to tell her that people from northern Maine didn’t realize how lucky they were to be able to see the stars. He was from a place where people couldn’t see very many of them but everyone was reaching for them. But in northern Maine, people could see just about all of them, it seemed. But not many people reached for them. He told Ginette before he left to make sure she’d never stop reaching for them. And Ginette promised she wouldn’t.

“You’ve been missin’ out,” chided Ginette.

“Yeah,” said Pete, marveling at the stars. “So … what am I lookin’ at?”

“Well—”

“I know the North Star, ’cause of scouts,” said Pete, looking directly above them.

“Okay.”

“And I know a couple constellations, like the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper.”

“Well, those aren’t constellations. They’re asterisms.”

“Huh?”

“Just—star patterns we all recognize. They’re inside constellations, which are bigger. Like … both of the Dippers are inside the Ursa Major constellation.”