In the backseat on long car rides home from my grandmother’s house in southern Illinois, I cataloged light sources in the dark: gazing at flare towers burning above oil wells, watching the taillights of faster cars shrink to pinpoints, following the sweep of flood lamps up the domes of concrete grain silos. The orange glow of the radio dial tuned to an oldies station bled into the beams of our headlights on the road. Bright kitchen windows in passing houses gave way to fireflies in fields. Lulled by the hum of the engine, I fought sleep for as long as I could, but finally it pulled me under. The next morning, as though by some magic, I woke in my bed. The only evidence it hadn’t been a dream waited outside in the driveway: the windshield of our station wagon spattered with insects.