I crawled into the space behind him and sat on the wet grass. The last time I’d seen this plane was in the newspaper photo my mom had shown me, its black tail smoking and sticking straight up out of the corn field where Mr. Murphy had been crop-dusting.

The first time I saw the moon was in my father’s fingernails, the soft crescent hills of calico calcium reflecting the moon I later threw rocks at. I found my guilt in his fingertips.