What I would have awakened you to say:

Get up and come outside, come on, come on, come for a drive. Don't look at the clock. Just trust me: get up. Not far from here is a field of hills sleeping under a thin sheet of fog, and the fog is flat and six feet off the ground with which it is parallel, and I will not let you sleep through its slumber. And I need you to hold the camera while I drive: I need your eyes to be as good as mine, to catch that that barn that only has one windowpane left has gone silver again and that the soybeans that have started to yellow this week are a wiser gold in the night and that the just-past-full moon has turned everything a cooler shade of quiet. And I need you not to say What? when I can't help but say Ohh under my breath.

I can do the midnight grocery trip alone, can even ring up and bag all my hundreds of dollars of party groceries alone because no one seems to be working a register. I can load the car alone and leave the parking lot alone. For that matter, I can learn the fogged fields by heart alone, too. But that's where I stop wanting to, where gratitude for the deep breath of quiet I just bought myself because of whatever possessed me to drive the moonlit backroads to Kroger at 10:30 p.m. starts tingeing with desire for enough boldness to find someone to pull out into that silvered rising fog with me.

And that's where you come in.