He’s twenty-nine now, but you wouldn’t know it. His eyes are sunken and hollow, lines etched into his skin by the afternoon sun. The 95’ Camry rumbles as the key turns in the ignition, its seats scratched by age and weather and too many nights spent asleep in the backseat. Up the driveway, right, then left, onto the I-6 towards Lincoln, where he is just another pair of hands used to put up the new developments.
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