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Summary
Walking back to the restaurant in a daze he had sobbed at random, at the sheer look of Moscow in the night, thinking, this is literally it. I’ll never come back. And maybe he would, but so far down the line that all would be totally unrecognizable. The orange light, the blue light against the snow. His nose running. Cars buried in snow, cars buried in snow.
Moscow, Shane's cottage, Boston, New York.