” One Friday, as she was sitting in the fifth row two seats left of center in Sixth Period Study Hall, a dull hard object thudded against the back of her head. You can scribble if you want to, but after you've given your eight hours daily to the mills. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain.
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