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Weekly Contest #358
It’s a Tuesday like any other in 1996; today is the first one in June, three months before every teen who couldn’t leave will have their fate decided by the election. Today is the day I leave, still only fifteen, nine hundred thirty-two kilometres away from the only border. I know I should’ve left sooner, especially with the iron pits rumours picking up. Child labour camps to silence us and keep teens here. It’s currently my first night on the road, and I’m about to sleep against a makeshift cardboard tent next to a motel. I have already wal...
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