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The world ended on a Sunday morning in summer. It was the sort of morning that pulled Londoners out of their hibernation, coaxing them to shed their floor-length coats and Ugg boots, and to once again to let the sun kiss their pale skin. When the earthquake began, my mother and I were at Hyde Park.

“Pedal!” I heard her shouting. “Pedal!” And I did. My little legs desperately pumped in circles, my heart leapt as I felt her fingers release the bike, and suddenly I was riding on my own. For the first time, the breeze whipped against my grinning

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