We stood there, clutching our heads, screaming. My friend and I became frightened, and as the light poured from the crest, our murmurs turned into screams. It looked like a single floodlight and then a tight swarm beginning to leak over the edge of the summit. But this glare, blinding and colorless, grew at an alarming rate. While kicking down the asphalt we saw a small bright light appear at the top of the peaks, near where we knew radio towers to occasionally emit flashes of red. Far beyond the end of the road was a mountain range, and at that time of evening it flattened into a matte indigo wash, like a mural. Once when I was about twelve I was walking down the dead-end road in Albuquerque where I grew up, around twilight with a friend.