66.

On the way home in a chilling drizzle tonight, I passed the auto repair shop near home. There was a pickup truck parked diagonally in the lot, with the doors open. As I walked past, a little girl ran around the front of the truck, hell for leather, with a scrappy blonde ponytail streaming out behind her, and braces glinting in the streetlight. She circled around again and again, silent and swift, but grinning, with dad chasing her half a truck-length behind, while mom negotiated with the mechanic.


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