You are the smell of cedar during a rainstorm. You are the porch, the chair, the cigarette and beer, sitting quietly listening to a chorus of cicadas calling to you from the reeds on a clear and humid summer night. You’re the earth and I’m the astronaut stranded on the moon. You are the harbor, and I am the sailor.

As we drive through, I’m struck by the neighborhood’s charm and moved uncomfortably by its character. Many of the houses have Christmas lights still up, and many couples gather close outside their doors to share cigarettes and conversation. It’s quaint with a subtle dirtiness; James reminds me that we’re in East Savannah, and though parts look pleasant enough, the place is far from it.