31 years ago, Phoenix had fewer lights. I spent my young life moving, leaving one town for another, sometimes in the dead of night.

I was told the roads were safer at night. I was told the night would keep us cool. My father and mother and sister and I were fugitives.

Miles and hours filled the rear window of our car with dark, empty spaces. What light fell lay faint and white, like a thin tarp of snow.

Over the years and on the way, I mostly remember the night. In the backseat I read the books in my lap under passing lights:

Sam and the Firefly. Bears in the Night.

I read the pictures still, and I drive - searching the corners of a world hidden by sleep.

— vance [at] 2amphotography [dot] com