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My wife and I drive to Catonsville, homemade napalm in our laps. Sun soaked and happy, we spill cherry cola on the map. My wife and I talk about the years, philosophy and its limits. Though we’re off to federal prison, there’ll be conjugal visits.
The two of us talk of having kids. Some great parents we would make. "Take it back. Those TV families are bullshit, they’re fake." We fix ourselves in the rearview mirror, my hairline receding every day. She shakes her head, she says to me: "I like you this way. . . and there’ll be conjugal visits."