The bus stops were starting to get fancy.
Flowers, both real and painted, some of the rectangular shelters augmented with sculptures of local college mascots and homages to cultural icons.
Carter Milchak didn’t know much about it.
He was just in a bus stop again, waiting on the Harper line to go home, backpack tugging at his meaty shoulders, holding his clarinet in the case, his knees aching from carrying around the kind of weight doctors told his mom would kill him young.
Looked at the clarinet and was glad he didn’t play the cello.
It was overcast, too dark for this time of day.
Paulie Goddard had just gotten his license, offered him a ride home during second-hour geometry, then reneged when Terry Poydor asked Paulie if he wanted to get tacos.
Carter heard a lot about manifesting, visualizing something so hard it just came true.
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