The summer my brother got mad we slept under our beds. The wood was cold on our cheeks and sometimes we licked it, pretending it was ice pops. We would have stayed there all day if our mom didn’t push her broom under, stirring the dust into our eyes and noses. But no matter how cold or how hot it was, we always played on the hill. Our house backed up against it, and from the top it was a good ten or twelve feet into the woods below. We rolled our trucks and matchbox cars, our sister’s dolls, ourselves, and even old Peanut Butter down the hill. His woof was loud and soft, loud and soft, all the way down. We loved the hill against our backs, our shoulders, our knees, the sky turning slow, warped, as we stared up from the bottom.
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