The traffic went on forever. Stan was bouncing with
energy, barely contained by his seatbelt.
“Are we almost there?”
“I don’t know, baby. There’s a lot of traffic and it isn’t
moving very fast.”
“But are we almost there?”
Stan’s mom sighed, “I don’t know, Stan.”
The car was hot, the air stagnant. The only thing moving
was Stan. He was shaking with excitement and impatience.
“Mom, we aren’t going to make it! We’re going to miss the
circus,” he cried.
Stan’s mom wiped a bead of sweat off her brow, “I’m sure
we’ll make it.”
Stan’s expression was dubious.
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