Sunday, February 26, 2012

Thousand: Six Hundred Seventy

of the table and eats tortilla chips. They are a little stale. Two more of the same brand in the grocery bags. Then we have packages of napkins, another disposable table cloth still in plastic. Ah, a big jar of salsa. Mild, red, chunky. The girl pops the lid and shovels a dollop into her mouth with a tortilla chip. “Yuck,” she says. “There’s skipping lunch and there’s starvation. Station two not here, yet.” She screws the lid back on, who knows when it’ll be necessary. If only to brain somebody. She looks up at the ceiling. It’s flat and

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