The light of the gold harvest moon woke Benjamin Dawson from his dream. He sat up in bed, and through the window he saw that moon, larger than any he had ever known before. How did it grow so close out of the black night loam? He could tell by the thickness of the quiet that he was the only one awake in his house, maybe in the whole town. The blanket his body had warmed in the night was still gathered around his legs like a dozing animal. Every moment the sky was lightening toward its dawn, and he wanted to go outside and see that moon before it set. It seemed to be hovering just beyond the winter trees, as though anyone who made it through to the other side of the woods and the edge of the bay would stumble upon some monstrous glory, like the discoverer of a continent. At nine years old, Benjamin knew he could never reach the moon, yet still he had an urge to confront this one, with nothing between the two of them but the stinging, star-speckled air.
He slipped out of bed and pulled off his nightshirt, lifting the clothes he had dropped onto his little wooden chair the night before. The clothes were cold, and he shivered into them. He crept down the stairs and tugged on the black clots of his boots, pulled his thick brown wool coat over himself, and grabbed his cap from the high shelf. The front door was stiff but silent.