It was snowing hard.
The tires slipped uneasily on the thin layer of snow
that had already accumulated.
We were driving North on 128.
The windshield wipers squeaked loudly as they pushed off the heavy snow.

Through the windshield, the lights of other cars
were a diffused glow amidst the thick snow flurries.
It was very cold.

My mother was concentrating on the road,
and we didn't talk much.




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Uncle Roger File 3: Terminals by Judy Malloy
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