I feel the back of my neck. My skin is concrete. There’s a round cutout where the jackport digs deep beneath it and into my spine. My bones are concrete. My spine is a circle. Where am I going? Out. That’s a start. I lace up my boots. Fingers dirty. I wash them, the faucet only half-on to keep quiet for Reese. Kssssh. Impossibly loud. At least it doesn’t squeak. Then my coat. Can’t go out…

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