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the car heavy because of all they’d taken with them and silent because of all they had not—they’d
Childhood memories were like airplane luggage; no matter how far you were traveling or how long you needed them to last, you were only ever allowed two bags.
It was exactly as he’d thought it would be, like the first time and the millionth time all at once, like being wide awake, like losing his balance. Only this time, it wasn’t just him; this time, they were losing their balance together.
His poor telescope heart—that fragile, precious thing—would have probably been better left in the box.
