We were lying on the trimmed grass of the Heath, the sun heating our skin. It was a beautiful afternoon on a Wednesday, and Hampstead Heath was empty except for a few clumps of people. As Molly Payton, an eighteen-year-old singer/ songwriter, basked in the sun in a summer dress and cowboy boots— her most treasured possession and an ode to Jim Morrison— I noticed a group of middle-aged men jesting and glancing over at us.

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