I was a high altitude child. Born and raised for the first six years of my life in Los Alamos, New Mexico (7355 feet above sea level), it was quite a shock to me to move suddenly to Scarsdale, New York (42 feet above sea level), and not just because my Dad broke the news of our impending move to us in the worst game of 20 questions ever. I was scared about starting in a new school in a new town, as any child would be. Within six weeks, though, I had made new friends, and Scarsdale seemed as much a home as Los Alamos. But though the coyotes were replaced with squirrels, the rugged cacti with leafy oak and elm, and the infinitely wide and clear night sky with the sickly orange glow of New York City’s light pollution, I never forgot my original home. When I talked to my childhood friend Sky on the phone, and many years later found him on Facebook, I remembered. When New York was struck by a heat wave of incredible intensity this past summer, I remembered. Most recently, my Dad finally restored his old car that we had barely driven since leaving Los Alamos: a beautiful white ’68 Volvo P1800, and as I learned to drive it and felt the roar of the engine so forgotten and yet so familiar beneath my feet, I knew, as I still know, that Los Alamos is still with me.