Вино из одуванчиков. Повесть и рассказы

He knew it would take as many years as could think of now to forget the tracks, no matter how deeply buried.

“Well, time to go. Parents’ll think I stole you all for good.”

And then they were at the end of the line, the silver tracks, abandoned for eighteen years, ran on into rolling country. In 1910 people took the trolley out to Chessman’s Park with vast picnic hampers. The track, never ripped up, still lay rusting among the hills.

How’ll I get around?

and all the time in the world held still,

“What’ll we do, then?

“We can’t stay in the attic three weeks hiding till everybody forgets.”
“We’d starve.”

his teeth like those you saw in dental windows, alone, grimacing at you, as you passed by late at night.

That’s just a jog around the block to them. It’s when you hit ninety, ninety-five, a hundred, that you’re far-traveling like heck.”

Need to run anywhere off the main streets,