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Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project — published, submitted, in progress, for your cat — whatever.

"Just when you think he’s got the difference between reality and TV down, they come along with reality TV,” Rictor grouches, even though the complaint is maybe a decade past its use-by date. Star and Westerns aren’t real had been the first thing that had crossed his mind when the boom had started.

 ”I’m pretty sure you’re the lucky bachelor already,” Teresa tells him with a grin, leaning forward to peer around the corner for oncoming traffic before she takes a left. It’s admittedly a lot less exciting than the same maneuver would have been with Star behind the wheel.

 ”Lucky,” Ric echoes, and snorts, because he’s not sure if she’s making a joke about ‘Star’s explore other people deal, or just Star. “Yeah.”

 It’s summer, and hot. His elbow is burning where he has his arm resting in the open car window. He’s going to end up with a really uneven tan, but Terry’s arm is burned an ugly pink from her own turn riding shotgun—Continued literal interpretation is another reason ‘Star’s relegated to the kiddy seats—and if it was a little dustier out and a little less green, it’d be a lot like tooling around Mexico with ‘Star, all those years that they’d spent interfering with and trying to shut down the Richter family business, sleeping in cheap motels and in their rattly, ancient car, and watching terrible soap operas when they had any television at all.

 All those years ago, after everything, and before everything else.

 Terry glances at him again, and Rictor realizes he’s folded his hands into that two-handed gun shape—the irony of that choice of gesture isn’t lost on him, but a boy does what a boy knows—and pretends to blow smoke off the tips of his index fingers, twitching an eyebrow in what he knows is a pretty poor impression of rogue charm, confirmed by Terry’s snort of sarcastic laughter.

 ”If you see a place to stop,” Ric tells her, unfolding his hands to drum fingers briefly against the door, “I could use a slurpee.”

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