My mother’s shout is lost behind me as my hair falls out of its knot. My legs tangle in my skirt and I yank it higher, hoping there’s a knife or scissors in the glove box. I need to lose this hair and then I need to kill a very bad doctor, hopefully before he breeds the end of mankind.
Jumping behind the wheel of the Caravan, my eye catches the bundle of threads dangling from the rear-view mirror with a silver fifteen attached.
“Trippy.” I touch the blue and green gingerly. It’s almost as trippy as my hair and this dress. I haven’t worn anything like this in ages. Most of us wear some version of army fatigues. I turn the ignition and pull away.
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