Journal 3
		At dusk, a dust covered pick-up truck pulls out of Firehouse # 6. Riding low with the weight of the houses remaining, the truck turns lift onto West Houston, an armed soldier cuts across my path. On the opposite side of the street, a woman wearing a coat (like a burka, but not) pushes a stroller and doesn't break stride. Somehow, this new Alphabet town void of junkies and thieves seems much more dangerous to me.

Megan's Journal

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