Breakfast comes in the form of to-go boxes from some off the wall diner in a small town we’re passing through just after nine in the morning. The coffee is weak, and far colder than I typically enjoy, with zero cream or sugar. I would have much preferred water or juice but I drink it anyway. The bacon is a little overcooked but the pancakes are to die for. They melt on my tongue, a sweet mix of butter and syrup, as I hold the box steady with one hand, and feed my face with the other. I’m not the…
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