Sweetheart
One of us would die too soon. Another should have, several times over, but didn’t.
We were dregs, ragtag royalty, if only in our own minds. Clinic was doing a Ricky Shroder thing, and Ling was Gallagher without the smashed melons. Oz, he had a grip on us all, thank God. But we were so young, man. Life was a ripe peach then. There was juice everywhere you looked, enough to drink for years, feeling invincible, as if everyone would get older soon enough, but not us.
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