I’m lying in the grass, staring up at the sky. The clouds move slow, like they’ve got nowhere to be. I’m six years old, and the world feels big, but safe. Mom’s inside, yelling at someone on the phone. I don’t know it yet, but she’s talking about me — about how hard it is to raise us alone. Dad’s not here. He shows up sometimes, takes us out for burgers, tells us stories about Alaska. But he’s not here now.

Years pass like pages flipping. I grow taller. My voice drops. I get glasses, then contacts. I fall in love. I smoke my first joint. I take pictures of light on walls, trying to hold onto something.

Now I’m 18. I’m packing my dorm room at Sul Ross. My mom’s crying in the kitchen. She says, 'I thought there’d be more.' I don’t know what to say. I feel it too — like life happened while I was looking somewhere else.

I step outside. The air is dry, warm. Nicole’s waiting by the car. She says, 'You ever think that maybe we don’t seize moments? Maybe they seize us?'

I look at her. At the canyon ahead. At the sky.

Do I walk into it — not knowing what comes next?