Lamb thinks he is a delinquent but not in a rebellious way. He doesn’t feel like he stands against anything particular aside from broad ideas like “church” and “suburban.” He thinks, “But I don’t stand for anything either.” He remembers one time when he thought about voting in a local election, but later decided the idea of it seemed clichéd and he stayed home.

It is night. Lamb looks out the window and watches a moon beams drift through an evergreen like mercury vapor, shaping dim forms in the air. He thinks, “I am a fan of spinning shadows” as he watches them reach across the grass and concrete. He lets his eyes unfocus until the world looks like its dissolving and being reabsorbed inside a lunar glow. He feels as if the planet is unraveling without gravity. Lamb thinks about the stars. He wishes he knew more constellations. He imagines he is a captain somewhere on the ocean without a radar or electronic compass and feels fucked because he cannot read the sky. He thinks, “Everything looks like the Big Dipper…or the Little Dipper” and feels perplexed. Lamb wishes he knew more about the stars and other things. He wishes he could remember walking along the beach as a kid on summer vacation with his feet in the sand, looking up at the sky and dreaming. But he can’t, because it wasn’t something he ever did. He thinks, “That would be a nice memory though” and imagines it would help him somehow, in the present. He thinks that if he was ever on a plane that was hijacked by terrorists, he would be able to enjoy his final moments by recalling that innocence and all the things that seemed possible then, instead of wondering why he is about to die for reasons he cannot understand, and he feels he would be comforted even though it would not be enough to calm the concussive pain created by his plane crashing into a skyscraper.