Junkyard 2 week 11

When I rolled down the windows of my sister's car, on our way up one of the blue ridge mountains, or Appalachians, I could almost smell dog breath, truffles, and upturned asphalt after the bus's front bumper chunked part off the road. In my mother's laughter from the backseat, I heard someone else laughing on the side of the Umbrian hills, in the middle of a rousing round of that song from Mulan, pointing walking sticks at each other as one of the professors explained our behavior to the Italian owner with the dog. Pigs didn't truffle hunt anymore because they ate too many. It was out of season for us.