Mama workshop. She noway picks me up from academy, and two long hauls is too close for a machine volley, which is fine by me because I like cutting through the forestland. Especially on afterlife days, when the air is cool, and the canvases and mosquitos are gone, and basketball practice has n’t begun. I like the quiet. I like the wordlessness of the walk. A suitable sugar maple dressed in pictorial orange frills beckons me off the path. I stand.
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