![]() ![]() My father steps into the kitchen, but by the time he realizes that I have turned the house into my personal racetrack, my car has reached its final destination – the ice cream in the freezer. The car runs along the top of the couch cushions, my mother remains focused on folding the laundry, my Siberian husky lazily eying my wild nonsense. It dives into the hallway, running past the bathroom and the towel closet, and leaps onto the armrest of the living room couch. It zooms across my pillow, accelerates off my blanket, and swerves onto my desk. ![]() ![]() A childhood dream: I firmly grasp my shiny toy car between my fingers. ![]()
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