Lowering his shoulders against the wet March wind, Francesco Albi—Frank to all but his wife—stepped into the wide street, breached its high crown, and, as if dropping along the face of a wave, let himself be carried to the cracked slate shore across from the elevated station.
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The frame of the bus fell away into the sand, the engine disappeared, and everyone followed the driver, feet deep in the desert, walking as if nothing had changed. Eyes to the front, hands over your ears. I was happy we were being so obscene. I was happy they knew.
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