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The Way Home


Has it been days or hours? We've been driving for such a long time.

I roll down the window, but I don't feel anything-- even though I see the palms rushing past, there's no wind, just a sensation of hot, stagnant air. I think we might die here, or else spend forever like this.

The sun hangs low on the horizon like it always does, dipping behind distant mountains that never get closer. I don't know where we're going and I know we'll never get there, but at least we're together.

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