Eight years later and the sun still sets behind Sleeping Giant and my dad still reminds me of the coyotes.

The light is dark, barely there. Maybe there is no real, natural light, but the frame is centered around the infrared glow of the candles atop a white, grocery store-looking, birthday cake. “18,” the photo shouts at you

One foot on the gas, two hands on the wheel, attention to the road, to the yellow lines, to the blinking lights, to the people, the wheel, the road, pressure on the gas, the rhythm of the tires on the road, the volume of the music.