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  • I sat in the passenger seat of the Camaro
    while Mr. Hansen drove me home in silence.
    I’d spent four Friday-night hours in his home,
    eating the chips and ice cream,
    browsing the bookshelves, and reading
    Helter Skelter and the latest critique
    of the Warren Commission Report.
    I wanted to ask him about Charles Manson
    and whether Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone.

    Mr. Hansen was the high school tennis coach,
    taught honor’s algebra, where I sat in my assigned seat
    in the back and struggled. But that was later.
    In junior high I watched his daughter, Julie,
    who liked to play Sorry and eat Peeps at Easter
    and went to bed without an argument.
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