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The leather of the steering wheel crinkles and falls away under Gia’s hands. Why is Gia driving? She hates driving.

“I don’t know how much of this you’ll remember.” Gia is crying, but not sobbing. Her hair is brown. It should be black. “I want to tell you, I want you to maybe know, okay?”

Del feels the springs begin to poke through his seat. It’s not Gia, it’s Rachel. Rust lances up the hood.

“I just.” Rachel’s shaking. “It wasn’t my idea to put you here, Dad. It wasn’t.”

Del inhales, cold and clear. The tires shred into the road.