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In the early hours of the morning, Curtis found himself walking along a clean and near-deserted street in the section of Tokyo known as Omotesandō, his heart racing in his chest, his eyes burning with unshed tears. It was mid August and Japan was in the midst of a heatwave, but for now, at 4:38 a.m., the temperature hovered around eighty degrees. Overhead, a Japanese nightingale was singing in a zelkova tree, and even in his current state he couldn’t help but note that it was an exceptionally lovely sound, a sound that made him think of childhood and home.