Jonathan picked us up at the airport. He looked so worn out, as if air or some necessary liquid had leaked out of his body. I haven’t seen him in almost a year. Have you always been this small and pale? A crowd of tanned, brightly dressed people was standing around him in the waiting area. He looked like a refugee with that pale face and black T-shirt. Someone who had just come from a place of poverty, harshness. When Bobby and I got off the plane, he gave us formal, rigid hugs, the way French politicians usually do.
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