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It’s sunset by the time we make it out to my parents’ place. The gravel road is still damp from the rain, kicking up barely any dust, so we’re driving with the windows rolled down and the stereo loud. My phone kept coming unsynced from the car, but you still get a few radio stations out here. Right now it’s that old Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros song, the coming home song, and this time last year we’d have all been yowling along. But nobody sings anymore: Iris, up front, is focused on her third beer, timing her swigs