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Glass

“Tomorrow we’ll get drunk and sunburnt,” smiles Glass: a circle of chuckles around the dying fire. “Yesterday we didn’t sleep. Two days from now we’ll dress in gowns, get our magic papers. Two days ago we we started our final sprint.

“Tonight.” Steam whistles; she lifts an iron pot from the embers with a poker. “Tonight we have four hilltop acres, darkness and music, a path to the water’s edge.” She tips the pot, fills a goblet. “Drink. Stay up nine more hours. Speak to each other as you won’t speak again.”

They sip, and pass, and forget how to lie.

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