Fiction - Running Young
So it’s four hours to the border, then another three down to Ensenada, and freedom by sunrise. Right now, we’re just heading out of San Diego, and Eleanor is a head and a pink felt blanket in the passenger seat. She is asleep and the roadside foliage is nothing but a mess of moving shadows. The Mustang rattles in unison with the highway. It is steel and old leather.There is a shoebox of my father’s cassettes in the back seat: a couple of Carlos Santana, Sade and Camilo Sesto. My father, a man of eclectic tastes, also had tapes of Donna Summer, Paul Simon, and the Fifth Dimension. Ellie and...
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