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Jake

Jake shakes white pseudocheese flakes onto his sausage and onion. On the stereo, Perry Como demands that a snowman marry him, but the only precipitation out the window consists of soggy leaves.

He hasn’t actually been outside in twenty-eight hours, and he wonders what it does to you, running out of vitamin D. The lack of sunbeams to lounge in doesn’t seem to affect the cat. Maybe he should be eating cat food.

Supposedly the best cure for cabin fever is a good book. Jake looks at his shelves for a while, then refreshes the Internet again, just in case.

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