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The young cop says, “Sorry ma’am, you’ll have to wait.” In the strobing red-blue glare he looks like a teenager. Melissa wonders if Tony had looked so young when he started, all those years ago.
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When summers at the dacha come to mind, the memories are scattershot. I like when they surface, but I don’t hold on to any of the fragments for too long. Not because anything unpleasant went on there; to the contrary, I remember those summers spent at our
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