We went camping for a night in May, driving up into Wisconsin with no particular destination in mind. Landing outside of New Glarus, we pitched our tent. It was a short hike into town—an old Swiss settlement—where we shared some beers and dinner, and I finally worked up the courage to grab Sam's hand and join the elderly locals on the dance floor.

"Jess, you have to let me lead."

"But, I am . . . right?"

I was laughing so hard at our sloppiness, my head buried in Sam's shoulder, that I couldn't dance for long anyway. We walked the mile or two back into the woods, to sleep under the still-bare branches and all of those stars. But first I settled up on the picnic table, lying out in the cold, body upturned toward all of those stars.