There was a moment when, after having talked of seeing old movies, we realized drive-in theaters were something we both remembered. The experiences at the theaters told between us, from our unacquainted past, preserved these remembered times as a narrative in which we once understood ourselves. They were always a peak in some specific night when arriving and leaving were sharp slopes. On one occasion it was recounted to me that when my friend was an adolescent, their party left the theater, which was a theater in the rural West, and drove on a myriad of dirt roads – the same roads in which they arrived but now found difficult to recognize in the dark of the new morning. Lost, they came upon an abandoned, strange building seen a ways from their vehicle. My friend told me that someone said it might’ve been a Japanese internment camp. The meaning of hearing such a term that was connected to an old building in the rural dark has gone past bewilderment and entered into memory. Of course, this is my memory, even though I remember my friend saying it was likely apocryphal, but yet, real or not not, it is something that is there.