I was deep into another endless haul when Snow tipped over in the passenger seat. The seam along his back had split just enough to show something tucked inside. I pulled over, hands shaking in the glow of the dashboard, and reached in. There was a tiny recorder, wrapped in pink tissue, the kind she used for birthday cards. I pressed play, and her voice filled the cab, younger, brighter, untouched by hospitals and machines.
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