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July 1, 2005

Michele: Ice, Ice, Baby

“Steve, it’s winter. Put the top on.”
“No way. Live a little.”

A plane overhead. A sudden shadow.

What Steve sees when he looks up turns his face bug-eyed and gape mouthed. Sasha looks at Steve in this cartoon pose, and has the absurd thought that there should be exclamations points hovering above his head.

Something falling from sky: blue, glistening through the fog, streaking like a meteor, crashing through the Jeep’s open roof, landing squarely on Steve’s head, turning his cartoonish face into a mess of blood and brain.

Blue ice. Frozen waste. Should have put the top on.

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