She sits down on the flatbed, pulls a folded American flag from her back pocket, and uses it as a napkin for the cold coffee.
I didn’t sell it. It was scraped. They took the tilt of my chin and the hope in my eyes and turned them into a filter called “Patriot Chic.” 2.3 billion uses. I got zero cents. The Trials Of Ms Americana.rar
She lights the sparkler. It hisses. Then fizzles. She sits down on the flatbed, pulls a