Dream of Danger. Maggie Shayne
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I was riding beside Mason in his black Monte Carlo, which was his dream car. I didn’t see why. It was big, it was old and it was ugly. I far preferred my ‘02 T-bird, a replica of the ‘65 model, only with electric everything, and lots of bells and whistles. His was original. It even smelled old. There was just one long vinyl bench, no console between the driver’s and passenger’s seats.
Myrtle, however, loved it. She liked the window seat, so I was in the middle, crammed up beside Mason, because she took up a lot of room. We had the window down halfway because I’m ridiculously in love with my dog and she loves the wind in her face. She crammed her face into the opening, mouth gaping, tongue flapping in the chill November breeze, goggles protecting her eyes.
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