NYC, New York
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September 9, 1912
I keep thinking of my family. I haven’t played on the train at all. It seems wrong that I should be given everything while they struggle.
As if mocking his words, Andrew’s new coat slid to the floor from the table where he had set it aside. They had passed the mountains and the land grew flatter every day they traveled. He watched the scenery change from the splashes of fall colors of the north, to the densely wooded trees in the mountains. The seasons seem to change backwards. The farther south they traveled, the more stubborn the land looked; grass retained a faded shade of green, leaves still clung to sprawling twigs. As they near the coast the trees shrank, and the grass grew taller and coarser. Mr. Robert lived on an island that he explained was nothing more than a large sandbar. It seemed an odd place to build the fourth wealthiest city in the US, but Andrew kept quiet about it.
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