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Perched on a rear-facing, foldaway jump seat in the back of the family station wagon. Wedged between your parents on the front bench of an old pickup truck. Or climbing around in the “+2” section of a sprightly red Italian 2+2 with the top down and everyone’s hair flapping wildly. The sentimental value of the vehicles we grew up in—and of the spots inside them that we got to call our own—cannot be