The Morning After
I woke up on Sunday with an immediate sense of dread. The music had been pounding until 3 a.m., and I already felt my patience wearing thin. But nothing prepared me for what I saw when I stepped onto my front lawn with a cup of coffee in hand.
Red cups, crumpled paper plates, empty cans, even a stray sandal—my yard looked like a battlefield. Not theirs, mine. My sanctuary. I just stood there, coffee forgotten, staring in disbelief.
A History of Trouble
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