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We crane our necks upwards and trace patterns on the rusty bottom of the car at the very top. Suddenly, the car swings upwards, taking us by surprise. You hold my arm and whisper in my ear. Look up this time. You can see everything. You can see infinity.

And it is true.

You can see almost the entire city from here. It is a clear day, one of our cobalt blue sky days with tiny wisps of clouds and the hot white sun streaming into silver in the late afternoon. I point out the library with its new copper roof, the Fortney museum of old rotted cars (We ought to go there someday, you say. It is closed now, I say. All the more reason to go, you say. I agree.).

You name the mountains for me--or as many as you can--starting from Pikes Peak, which we barely detect on the horizon, up the Front Range and on through Long's Peak past Boulder, which we must look back at, craning our necks and rocking the seat.

We should visit those peaks, you say.

More, I say. We should visit the stars. Find out what is out there.

You nod. I know where we can find a spaceship cheap. It would probably fit two, but you would have to sleep in the trunk.

We both smile and look away.

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