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Grigory

Streetlights, and heartache, and Jimmy Eat World.

For a minute Grigory is every jacket-wearing shag-haired boy in the world, and Maryanne is every girl with a crooked smile and her arms wrapped around pain. They’re driving down a road bordered by dying grass in Espirito Santo, and Illinois, and Järvamaa; the truck’s heater coughs dust and the flannel smell of grandfathers.

They believe every generation has shared a moment like this, and they’re wrong. Recorded music and double-lane highways are less than a century old. What they share is something more important: the myopia of youth.

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