The title comes from Oshkosh, Wisconsin, where the family moved when Greg was nine and stayed until he was fifteen — six winters of farm country, comic books bought with allowance money and strawberry earnings, and superheroes (Batman above all, but Daredevil and Spider-Man too) who fascinated him precisely because they struggled with what they were. In the last of those winters, Wisconsin State University-Oshkosh held an Ingmar Bergman symposium and screened every available film; father and son attended every one, and The Seventh Seal in particular did something that took decades to fully name: it made him simultaneously an optimist and a nihilist, a condition he has not since resolved. Standing on the south side of the Chicago Riverwalk years later, preparing for a workshop in architectural photography, he looked up at Chicago's second-tallest building in the hazy afternoon light and did what those Oshkosh years had trained him to do: he imagined moonlight, a figure in a cape at the edge, and the entire scene rendered in Bergman's high-contrast monochrome — light and shadow as moral categories rather than technical ones. The image is what that imagination looks like when you have a camera.