“2:30 a.m. in McMurdo Station is when your body can’t dance anymore. A friend calls to you from across the writhing crowd, his voice echolocating through pumping limbs. You want to stay but your back is stiff and your joints ache. This is your third deployment to Antarctica, and for months you’ve been working sixty hours a week hunched over a computer manifesting flights. You’re exhausted, not solely from the job. You’re the third generation in your family to work in Antarctica, and sometimes you wonder if you chose this or if it chose you. You’re tempted to keep returning no matter how it wears on your body, on your soul.”

"5 a.m. in Sapperton belongs to hospital workers and insomniacs, all of us alone. I am the latter on a curb, one of many on the corner, sticking like burrs to the corduroy shell of this sleepy nowhere. I lean against my trembling apartment building that threatens to sink into the earth whenever a train screams by. This rain-soaked slice of town is wedged between the hospital where I drew my first shuddering breath and the freight tracks where someone surrendered theirs just two weeks ago."

"10:30 a.m. in Choteau, Montana is the best time to look for snow geese in the barley fields. That’s what Dave says. He picks us up in his old Chevy truck, the one with 375k miles and a “check engine” light that’s been glowing on the dash for over a decade. Dave is eighty-four now—a nasal tube looped beneath his trucker hat, a portable oxygen concentrator humming in the front seat—but the way my grandma looks at him, you’d think they were both nineteen."

"Midnight on the Volta River is a shock of sensations under a star-pricked sky. To get here, you spent the day on long, fume-choked roads stretching northwards out of Accra, where the interminable traffic was interrupted only by basket-toting street sellers or the occasional bad-tempered baboon."

“1 p.m. in Binbrook is humming with prayer. I overhear the apple tree in my Sito’s backyard swelling with unpicked fruit, existing wildly outside of human consumption.”

“3 p.m. on the lakefront path is a man shaking a flyer at me like a fist: ‘REPENT: GOD IS JUSTICE.’”

“6:34 p.m. on Goat Mountain is blasts of rough-housing wind, chilled grass sprouting through rock, dying light sliced to rays by nearby ranges.”

“ 2 p.m. at Tanglewood on a summer Sunday is when thousands pack the Music Shed or sprawl across the meadow beyond.”

“6:45 a.m. in Portland, Maine is a weightless, in-between time. In the stillness, before the city shakes itself fully awake, there’s only the sour, bready scent of the breweries and occasionally, when the wind is right, the faint whiff of salt and sea.”

“8:45 p.m. at 26 Elmwood Road is the only constant that year you’re perpetually unemployed, rootless, in limbo.”

“3 p.m. in Requena is time to eat. Yes, you ate breakfast on the terrace four hours ago: peach wedges, watermelon triangles, crisp wafers of cucumber.”

“6 a.m. on Mount Kilimanjaro is dry, mirthless cold, the tromp of boots on scree, and unraveling hallucinations.”

“7:10 p.m. in Provincetown is my body in a swing chair facing west. I sit here every evening to watch the sky change.”

“8:45 p.m. at the Selinsgrove Speedway is a wall of sound rising up from the sprint cars racing around the half-mile track of clay and dirt."

“3 p.m. in Chapel Hill is unrelenting.”

“5 p.m. in Dublin is scratchy vinyl, a Guinness buzz, and deep blue light.”

“6:32 a.m. at Boudhanath Stupa in Kathmandu is a rapid current of silence and hope, a clockwise ritual that welcomes me without question.”

“Dusk in the Rubʿ al Khali is stepping outside into air that feels the same as your body, like when you get used to pool water and forget you are wet.”

“4 p.m. at Sankt Peter-Ording is low tide, the waves a distant line of froth on the pale horizon.”

“3 p.m. in Sa Cabaneta is when your brother cleans the pool. He culls the dead leaves into the net and throws them over the hedge.

“After dark on Sabal Palm Road in Florida’s Picayune Strand State Forest is when the Chuck-will’s-widows make their calls.”

“10 p.m. in Muriwai is too late to walk home. Not because it’s dangerous, but because it’s so dark.”

“6:15 p.m. on the Hill of the Skull, just south of Quillacollo, Bolivia, is when crowds of pilgrims finally disperse, and the distant jingle of the shaman’s bell now carries easily through the thin, Andean air.”

“9 p.m. in Muisne, an island off the northern coast of Ecuador, is jellyfish bubbling from the sand on a dark beach.”