U.S. Army Base Camp Zama, Japan, August, 2003. I am nineteen and friendless when they assign me the graveyard shift. I wake up at midnight, dress in my police uniform, bike to the MP Depot, reverse my patrol car out of its stall, then drive my assigned route for the next seven hours, the roads illuminated by the vehicle’s elongated headlights and the orange haze of streetlamps. The shift is monotonous; nothing happens here, no different from everything leading up to this point in my life. The Army recruiter had carefully stepped over the minefield of crushed beer cans in my parents’ trailer in Wickenburg, Arizona, choosing to remain standing while I signed the enlistment papers.

It is a little past two a.m in my second week of this shift. So far, I have driven past the cluster of storage facilities nine or ten times. It is raining. He is walking on the stretch of road that leads to I Corps headquarters. He must be assigned to Intelligence; no one else would be reporting to work at this hour, other than me.

I slow as I approach him; he is the only person I have seen all night. Dressed in civilian clothes—khakis and an untucked button-down—he looks several years older than me. He holds an umbrella in one hand and a can of Dr. Pepper in the other.

I speed past. Three cross-streets later, I deviate from my route, circle around, and catch up to him once again. I roll down the far window.

“Hey,” I yell. “Want a lift?”

He jumps. Spheres of red and blue reflect in his wet glasses; I can’t recall turning on the flashing lights.

I switch off the lights. “Sorry. Want a lift?”

He closes his umbrella and clambers into the passenger seat.

“Thanks,” he says. “I’m headed to I Corps.”

“I know. Care to share what you’re working on?”

“I can’t.”

We talk instead about the first place we’d visit when we return to the States. He says the Boston Children’s Museum; he’s from Cambridge. He particularly liked the Japanese House exhibit, but admits its significance to him has waned, now that he lives here.

“I’d hit Taco Bell,” I say. “You can’t guess how much I miss the Crunchwrap Supreme.”

I drop Mike off at his building entrance.

“Thanks, Hailey,” he says. “Nice talking to you.”

Mike got his degree in aeronautics from Stanford, I find out the next night. We talk about how we ended up at Camp Zama. For him, it was a desire to make a difference. For me, they told me that’s where I was going.

“Thanks,” he says when I drop him off at the steps of his building. “Nice talking to you.”

“You’re wrong,” I say after he claims the best food to come from Japan is okonomiyaki. “It’s ramen. You should know that.” The night is cool and dry; we’ve rolled down our windows to let the scent of wildflowers drift in with the breeze.

“Have you ever tried okonomiyaki?” he asks.

I glower. He thanks me on his way out.

One night, I grudgingly agree The Dark Knight is the best of the franchise.

“Bale was the second best actor, after Ledger,” I tell him.

“I disagree,” he says. “That would be Oldman.”

“You don’t know shit about anything.”

He chuckles on his way out. “You’re probably right, Hailey.”

“How about you?” Mike asks. He had just got done explaining how he spends his free time, or did back in Boston—he filled his weekends and most weekday mornings with birdwatching in the city parks, which would have struck me as really weird, except by this point I have come to expect things like this from him. “But why?” I had asked. “Many reasons,” he replied. “Mostly that it helps me see the world in new ways.”

The thing about talking to somebody much smarter than you is you can never be sure of yourself when you’re around them, no matter how understanding they are.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t really have any passions.” The car engine hums with indifference.

For the first time, Mike looks disappointed in me.

~

On my evenings off, there’s this secluded fishing pond I like to go to. It’s hard to make friends here, partly because I’m a woman in the Army and partly because I’m a cop, mostly because people make me uncomfortable. Nobody comes here, especially at night, so it’s just me and these perch that will eventually get hungry and one day chomp at the worm on the hook.

I thought of asking Mike if he wanted to join me, because maybe he also doesn’t have friends, but I couldn’t imagine him caring to spend his weekend nights mucking around a slimy pond with the likes of me.

The snouts of two yellow perch emerge from the surface of the water and quiver in the air like prairie dogs.

“What?” I say. “I don’t have any food on me.”

In another universe, I don’t end up stuck here, bored and alone, driving in endless circles as the world around me sleeps. In this universe, I win a national singing competition on the most competitive reality TV show. I am the dark horse, narrowly escaping elimination most weeks, until my late surge in popularity propels me to the finale; the critics hail my victory as the most sensational come-from-behind fairytale in the history of reality television.

In my universe now, other than when I’m with Mike, I might as well be mute. But in this other universe, my concerts fill the world’s coliseums. This is my favorite set: the stage is pitch black; I am wearing an onyx dress, sparkling sequins, black satin gloves that reach my elbows. In this stadium, the time is midnight. In this sea of obsidian that is the crowd, specks of light shine through the darkness: phone cameras waiting in anticipation. A shimmering curtain of aqua light illuminates the top half of the stage: my own aurora borealis, backlighting my outline in the center of the stage.

I belt out the opening line, my arms raised toward my aurora borealis. The stage explodes with flashing colors: green tubes, blue spheres, silver streams; midnight has transformed to day. The crowd thunders.

In this other universe, Mike stands off to the side, his arms folded, quietly observing me. I look at him frequently. It is impossible to guess what’s on his mind. Toward the end of the set, our eyes lock. He nods slightly; a trace of a smile on his face. My heart races; I’m grateful that he has come on a night where I am performing exceptionally. Who am I kidding? In this universe, I always perform exceptionally.

In my universe now, the perch remain partially emerged for a moment longer before they sink back into the water with a gentle splash, creating concentric ripples that spread across the dark surface of the water.

~

Early December. The base: austere, detached, silent. The ground is dusted with snow, which in the coldness of the night glistens in the car’s headlights.

“You know, Hailey,” Mike says. “You should consider college. You’re smart. You can do better than this.”

We are parked outside his building, the engine humming and the heater blasting stale, warm air.

“That’s not in the cards I was dealt,” I say.

“You get to exchange three cards,” he says.

“I wouldn’t exchange one for college.”

“What would you exchange it for?”

I remain silent.

“I know what I’d want,” he says.

“You already hold a royal flush, Mike.”

He chuckles. “Still, I’d give anything to get back onto a normal work schedule. I haven’t slept properly in months.”

“Yeah, me too. That’s what I’d want.”

After I drop Mike off, I switch to the Japanese radio station that plays American hits. For the next three hours, I sing alongside Evanescence, Beyonce, Avril Lavigne. I roll down the windows and sing at the top of my lungs, but the world is asleep, the coliseum deserted. People back home ridicule Nickelback, but when you’re seven thousand miles away and craving a cheesy gordita crunch and you can’t recall the last time you felt this restless, you start to believe you’re one of the few who can truly understand what the lyrics are telling you.

“What he did was terrible,” I tell Mike. This morning after work, I watched a TV episode where the plastic surgeon helps his patient—who is also his lover—commit suicide. I have not been able to dismiss from my mind the image of her in her final moments. I’ve been struggling to stay focused for the last several nights. My lack of sleep has begun to take its toll. I’ve caught myself nodding away at stop signs. “You just can’t do that.”

Mike remains silent.

“Well?” I prod. “Don’t you agree it’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” he finally says, carefully. “If somebody I loved was in that much pain, and if all of science points to no possible cure, I think our final act of compassion could be to help them go on their terms, and with their dignity intact.”

Bile rises in my throat. “That’s not love. That’s murder.”

“I’m not sure they’re always mutually exclusive,” he says, quietly.

I slam on the brakes. We are a mile away from his office. “Sorry, I need to be somewhere,” I announce. “Sorry, I’m tired.”

He retrieves his can of Dr. Pepper from the cup holder and silently exits the car. I remain parked by the curb until he disappears around the corner.

That day, I don’t fall asleep until well past sundown. When I finally wake up, I have minutes to get ready for work. For the next three nights, I avoid driving on the road that leads to his office building. I hope he knows I’m not angry at him. Who am I kidding, of course he knows.

On the fourth night, I slow to a stop and roll down the window.

“Hey.”

He gazes at me, his expression inscrutable. “Hey.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. Should I come in?”

“Yeah.”

He shuts the door and turns down the radio. I drive slowly. He doesn’t seem to mind.

~

I still can’t stop thinking about that episode with the plastic surgeon and his lover. In her final moments, she gazes out into the sea with an expression that suggests acceptance of her destiny, but we’re left to imagine what’s really on her mind.

“Do you ever wonder if we go to heaven when we die?” I ask. I want to tell him how terrified I am to die alone, which is ironic because I have only ever been alone.

Mike calmly considers this. This is one of the things I like about him. He never seems surprised with my questions.

“I thought of this quite a bit growing up,” he admits.

“And?”

“I’ve come to the conclusion that heaven doesn’t exist.”

I sink into my seat. If there was anybody whose opinion on this I trusted, it was Mike. “So, what happens when it’s time?”

“I’m afraid it’s not very exciting,” he says. “The process is quite biological. We decompose and eventually become dust.”

“That’s it? We become fertilizer?” I focus on the flecks of floating dust filtering through the car’s dome light.

“Initially, yes, but we don’t stay this way,” he says. “At some point, we’ll get swept up there.” He nudges his head upwards.

“Into outer space?”

“Yes. Outer space.”

“And that’s where we end up in the end end?”

He smiles. “It’s not the worst final resting place, all things considered.”

I imagined myself up there, floating in a giant nebula of dust, for all of eternity.

“You’re probably right,” I admit.

~

Winter turns to spring. Moonlight pours onto the night asphalt and softens its brittleness.

“I’m getting a PCS,” Mike says. A grid of LED light poles illuminates the empty parking lot of his building.

“Right on.” The register of my pitch is too high. I clear my throat. “Where they sending you?”

“The Pentagon.”

“You lucky bastard.”

“I’ll miss this place.”

“Miss what exactly?”

He stares out the windshield. “Maybe I won’t miss it.”

My stomach tightens. When he thanks me, I remain silent, until he quietly wishes me a good night.

~

The rain returns in mid-April. Puddles form on the cracked sidewalks and glisten under the moon.

“So, you’re shipping out tomorrow,” I say. I drive carefully in the rain.

“In eleven hours.”

We are silent for the rest of the drive.

When we get to his office, I ask, “Why didn’t you ever drive to work? You would’ve had the roads to yourself.”

“I thought I’d enjoy the nightly walk,” he says. “Otherwise I’d be stuck in my office all night and at home sleeping all day.”

“Did I ruin things by driving you?”

He smiles. “Not at all.”

“Well, see you around,” I say.

He taps me on the shoulder once. He lowers his head and rests it on my shoulder for a brief moment before he wordlessly gets out of the car. My heart pounds.

I stay there for a bit, keep the engine running. I switch on the radio; my station is playing Linkin Park. I hum along. Ripples of rainwater slick the windshield. I switch on the flashing lights and watch the sheets of rain sway between bursts of red and blue. I imagine Mike inside, the walls covered with beeping green monitors. I wonder, when he trains his surveillance gear on the night sky, if he would see a swirl of dust, or an aurora borealis shimmering under the constellations. I wonder if his sound equipment could pick up the hum or the muted roar of a stadium crowd.

The orbit of patrol lights dance on the concrete wall of the I Corps building. The engine of the car thrums, the only source of warmth out here.