The Architect of Her Own Fate
The coffee at Speedy Diner tasted like it had been brewed in water that had previously boiled a radiator. Sarah Johnson knew this because she had worked the night shift for eleven months and had developed a palate for exactly this kind of mediocrity. She poured it into a chipped mug anyway. Tasha was asleep at home, probably kicked halfway across the room like she had been since she was a...
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