On Friday nights in high school I’d drive to the Lutheran seminary in my hometown and listen to R.E.M. tapes with my friends. We’d sit around a big, empty courtyard near half a dozen little fountains lit by yellow spotlights.

Voices talking somewhere in the house, late spring and you’re drifting off to sleep with your teeth in your mouth.

A big lake sat next to the grounds near half-empty dormitories. “That’s where the lonely seminarians live,” my high school boyfriend would say.

A security guard on hourly rounds walks by and we stop the tape until he passes. Sit still in the middle of everything, surrounded by fountain and dorm lights and all that water.