I have never heard a sweeter sound than the roar of the engine when the attendant turns the key, and it is good to be in my old familiar truck, good to be able to spend some uninterrupted time with my cousin Erin, whom I really hadn’t seen all that much since she moved to New York. When we finally roll onto the George Washington Bridge, the length of Manhattan spread in its magical geometries along the Hudson below us, the toxic cloud in the distance still curling into the red, early-evening sky, the deep-throated hum of the engine melts into the hollow sound of our sobs.
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