Fiction | By Andrew Roe
There’s No One Quite Like Us
“Look. That’s us, there we go,” says my oldest and stubbornest and everything-est. He’s nine now and referring to a car that just whipped past us like it’s the Autobahn and not I-80—people in our same car, same make, same model, same color, same properly proportioned parent-kid/male-female ratio—coming up from behind and then snaking around …