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Bari

Bari pours the flat gray discs shyly into Armin’s hands. “I want you to have these,” she says.

Armin picks one up and turns it over. It says COMISSUM on one side, and TRUST on the other.

“Thank you,” he says. “Do you have a dollar?”

Later, as Armin’s new biker friends set her couch on fire, Bari struggles through the party crowd into her kitchen. “This isn’t fair!” she screams over the music. “I want it back now!”

“Ah no, sweetie,” says Armin, crushing another disc to powder and rolling the dollar into a tube. “It doesn’t work like that.”

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