When my sister Baby was a teenager, she’d throw orange soda cans in the air and shoot as many as she could with a gun before they hit the ground. We’d walk out every night past the neighborhood towards the horizon where the desert widened. The sky would catch the bullets; we could breathe. I would wait until the star came out. I painted the same star every night with watercolors because there were no trees to paint and nobody to tell you how to paint them. It doesn’t matter who made the laws. The straight shooters are the only ones who matter. I zone in on the star, leaving the record, a foundational document. 50 exactly. 50 watercolors of the same lone star.