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95 Friday Afternoon Three twenty-five: the neighborhood crawls with buses, yellow—some long, some short—they shudder through leaves still on trees, turn corners, turn on lights, wait for parents to gather bursts of kids. Who waits more impatiently for these stinking buses— Parents? Or kids eager to slosh through yellowed leaves? The boy who needs hydraulics stares at the leaves unseeing through thick glasses. Why wait for this every day? A life of riding buses. Parents, kids forget the buses. Autumn sun leaves. You can’t wait. ...

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