Journey without Maps – Howie Good

We must be lost. As the driver, I should really know where we are. We drive around to get a
sense of place and pass payday loan shops, the bloated carcass of a dog, streets with holes. A
teenage girl writhes on the sidewalk, her right leg splayed at a gruesome angle, her face
contorted with pain. Huddled over her are a couple of friends whose idea of help is to just yell,
“C’mon! Stand up!” I keep asking myself what is happening to my country. “If you see me,” the
mass shooter says in the latest tweet, “weep.”

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