This cabin is hours away; it’s just now ten at night, but fuck it. I don’t sleep much anymore anyway.

My tires crunch on gravel, and then the gravel gives way to grass. I pull to a stop, and my headlights illuminate cattails waving in a breeze, dark water rippling against the shore, a small dock, wood planks and four posts, with a tin fishing boat tied to the post at the end of the dock.

Moths swirl madly in the twin spears of my headlights.

To my left, I can make out the small bulk of a building. My headlights only cast the dimmest glow on it, but I know it is made of logs, and I can see a few steps leading up to a porch. The rest is in shadow.

I shut off my engine, step out. Stand in the cool of a late summer night in the Georgia mountains. Crickets sing. A frog goes rrrrrrUPP in the distance. I look up—stars in an endless multitude, outshone only by a bright silver half-moon.

A bat flitters across the moon, chasing moths.

I take a long, slow, deep breath. My chest aches—I don’t know why.

Now that I’ve opened my mind to it—or maybe my heart—all I can hear is Lisa’s voice.

Now you’re ready to heal, ain’tcha. Boy, you been wallowing in some fake-ass shit, and you know it. Time to move on, big ol’ lover boy.

“Okay, Lisa,” I whisper, my voice harsh and loud in the silence. “Okay. I hear you. I’ll try.”

The automatic headlights of my truck shut off, and I’m wrapped up in darkness. Now only the moon and stars shed light, and after a moment of standing in the darkness the night songs grow louder.

The sky is mammoth. Out here, in the mountains, an hour from the nearest real town, there are more stars than dark space between. Down low, the trees on the far end of the lake obscure the stars in spires and clumps, and there’s the faint chooonk-clop of waves against the dock posts.

I have the key in my pocket, and I fish it out. My shoes plonk on the old wooden steps, two of them. I click on the flashlight on my phone, a sudden burst of white light revealing an old brass door handle, the area around the lock scratched into faded graphite scribbles. The door is pine, with four panes of leaded glass, dust-clouded. My cell phone light reflects garishly off the glass. I unlock the door and twist the knob, push in. I fumble along the wall next to the door and find a light switch; a handmade chandelier turns on, made from braided silver strands and sections of stained glass. It’s an odd choice for lighting in a rustic fishing cabin, but it’s pretty, and a work of art, lovingly crafted.