The moon hangs low, brushing against the tops of the evergreens outside of town. There is a constant high-pitched whine that can be heard over the music, and it’s coming from my dog. Every bedroom in a mile-wide radius is occupied. Some people are shagging half-heartedly on couches. We are running out of food, but somehow not booze. Most of us are dancing; it hurts if we stop. This is the forty-third time someone plays this song. Every time we send someone out for supplies or for help, we end up spreading the party. Coordinates attached. Consider this an invitation.