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Weekly Contest #284
I’ve never met Elisabeth Baker, yet I couldn’t help but stare at her cursive handwriting and hesitate at the frail, shaky letters scraping the tea-stained paper. She sounded sure of my acquaintance in the summer of ‘69. Liz—a moniker I supposedly gave her—wrote scandalous things; midnight excursions to an abandoned mine, diving in a moonlit lake, and shared cigs at the Apollo 11 Parade in New York. Unfortunately, her memories were as foreign to me as the twenty-first century. And I should know, I’ve lived in California since 1873. ...
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