Transitions

He drops his mask more frequently now. After slogging through comparative analysis of Genesis 1 we got to talking about the city he just came from. Cities make me uncomfortable, and I made a comment to the effect that I don’t like having to look over my shoulder. He said with a dreamy sigh that’d be nice, so I took the opportunity to softly ask, “You can’t imagine living like that, can you?” He shook his head slowly. So I told him that he’s in a unique situation in that he can go anywhere after Phase III.

“Just pick a place,” I plead with him. I picked a place: Pocatello, Idaho. “Buy a truck, a cowboy hat, and move to Pocatello, Idaho. Just go somewhere where no one will recognize you or think to look for you,” I urge further.

“Sounds nice,” he agrees even though he can’t picture trading in his expensive suites and 5 star meals for a truck or cowboy hat.

So where does he want to go? “California–San Diego maybe.” This is where his troubles began, where the gangs will find him, snuff his dreams, and squeeze the life from him. I couldn’t take it, so I returned the conversation from life transitions to transitions in narratives.

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About hey miss

A teacher. A prison guard. I used to think that was like oil and water. Like lightening and metal. Some days it is. Some days it's magic.
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