After everyone has been asleep for hours, he takes his walks around the farm with his camera. It is his way of taking stock, coming to terms, assuaging his anxiety about everything that is.

Night walking and night pictures. He contemplates through seeing the way he often does on Third Stree at night. But it is so different here. The San Joaquin valley sky is filled with stars — the dipper, the Milky Way, Orion’s Belt, faraway planets are easy to see (not like Brooklyn where a couple of stars are a bounty).

She wakes for a moment and sees that his side of the bed is vacant and she knows that he is out there looking at the night. His physical memory takes him to all the places he has always loved.

While she returns to sleep he walks on cracked earth — steady, it’s easy to fall. He walks through former orchards; on driveways to dairy barns that are no longer a part of this farm (they are someone else’s, not his anymore).

But the sky still belongs. And the land, the house that is theirs begins to feel large enough to contain the memories and the future.

He returns to his childhood bedroom where she is sleeping. "It’s just me," he says. She is used to these gentle wake-ups in the night; and returns to sleep without trouble. He lays in bed, thinking, planning, seeing, hoping the pictures will look just as he saw them through the camera.

Just as they are meant to be.