Christopher O’Meara


I’ve been waiting in line for Sour Patch Kids for at least fifteen minutes. My gut tells me Titanic hit the iceberg by now. “Let’s get this line moving,” a stranger shouts behind me. I’m sandwiched between a dozen or so people, but I can see him. It’s been over ten months since the accident, seven since he limped across the stage at graduation, and yet here he is, nimble as ever, racing from one end of the snack bar to the other in the dizzying blur of red velvet…

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