Little Stories

That moment when you're leaning against the railing of some art car, dazed, head lolling to the music. It's chilly and late, and you wonder if your night is over. Then again, it isn't up to you. It's up to the driver of this mutant vehicle, and she doesn't seem to be very interested in the 3 o'clock plaza, your corridor back to camp. Your fellow Burner pokes you in the ribs. "Wake up!" he insists.

"I'm awake," you concede.

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