There was dirt on my knees and the floor of the car. There was a wine bottle in the front seat that burned to the touch. I’d wrapped it in a cobbled-together bundle of magazines, half-burnt newspapers from the incense sticks we’ve put out on them, long-lost sweaters, and food wrappers. My head thunked against the steering wheel. Once. Twice. See, the thing is, most people’s grandparents leave behind some sort of heirloom. A pearl necklace. Or a silk dress. Or, even a bottle of scotch.…
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