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Weekly Contest #367
It’s been two years since a drunk driver killed my 17-year-old son, Freeman. Two years of anguish. Two years of meaningless existence trying to figure out where I belonged, what my purpose was. Today would be different. I parked my car and walked toward the building. The heavy prison door closed behind me. I was in. Between the rush of air behind me and the force of the door pushing my back, it gave me no choice. Damn, these doors were heavy. The institutional smell struck almost immediately. Concrete and iron. The distant sound of inmates ...
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