If the entire history of planet earth were compressed down to just one day starting at midnight, life first appeared at 4 a.m.

A 32-inning game between the Pawtucket Red Sox and Rochester Red Wings was finally suspended at 4:07 a.m. on Easter Sunday in 1981. Though the game itself took place in Pawtucket, its broadcast reached Rochester, where a devoted listener captured the commentary on cassette tapes, ultimately sacrificing portions of her Elvis recordings when supplies ran short. The cold was so unrelenting that players resorted to burning shattered bats and splintered benches for warmth.

At approximately 4:10 a.m. on February 24, 1954, twenty-one American soldiers who had been prisoners of war during the Korean War crossed the Yalu River into China, formally sealing their defection to the communist world.

On January 18, 2015 at 4:15 a.m., an unconscious victim of a campus sexual assault awoke in a hospital with pine needles tangled in her hair and blood dried on her skin. For years, the public knew her only as “Emily Doe,” a symbol of resilience and injustice. Later, she would testify to her trauma and choose to step out of anonymity, revealing herself to be Chanel Miller and reclaiming her story in her memoir *Know My Name*.

At 4:00 a.m. in a small Ukrainian village under Russian occupation, a text arrived: Be ready to leave in 20 minutes. For 62-year-old veteran Bob Platts and his wife, the darkness of night was both an escape and a terrifying gamble for survival.

After 14 nights underground, two miners trapped in a mine in Beaconsfield, Australia, saw rescuers break through on May 9, 2006, at 4:27 a.m. At the heart of the effort were people like explosives specialist Darren Flanagan, who has been widely credited with carrying out sustained, delicate blasting operations that opened the final approach. The miners' entrapment forms an ironic juxtaposition to the biblical tale of Paul and Silas: while Paul and Silas were freed by an earthquake, the miners were trapped by one.

At 4:33 a.m. on July 4, 1960, the first 50-star American flag was raised in Mars Hill, Maine. Decades later, a man has a scheme to cash in big on a long forgotten flag locked away in a small Michigan law office.

At 4:35 a.m. in David Wiesner’s wordless book Tuesday, a dog chases a frog soaring through the night—until a sudden swarm of frogs turns the hunter into the hunted.

At 4:40 a.m. on May 9, 1970, Richard Nixon stood at the Lincoln Memorial, speaking with young protesters weary of the Vietnam War. In the shadows of marble and sleeplessness, the president’s words revealed both his yearning for peace and his own gnawing insecurities. Lyrics in the chorus are borrowed from Longfellow’s poem “A Psalm of Life,” (a favorite of Nixon’s), and the piano postlude is a digital transcription from a recording of a piece written and played by Nixon himself.

At 4:45 a.m. on June 12, 2015, the skies above San Miguel de Tucumán, Argentina reverberated with an eerie, low hum. Part of a mysterious global phenomenon, the sound haunted residents, driving some to abandon homes in desperation.

At 4:50 a.m. on February 24, 2010, one of Detroit’s last grand skyscrapers finally succumbed to demolition efforts, its graffiti-scarred walls tumbling into dust. Once a symbol of progress, the Lafayette Building had become a skeleton sprouting trees from its rooftop.

At 4:58 a.m. on April 30, 1975, U.S. Ambassador Graham Martin boarded a helicopter from the roof of the Saigon embassy, marking America’s final departure from Vietnam. Haunted by the death of his stepson, Martin’s reluctant farewell embodied the nation’s painful reckoning with defeat. Lyrics in the bridge taken directly from Edmund Blunden’s poem "Another Journey from Béthune to Cuinchy."