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By Chelsea L., Phoenix, AZ

The air was deathly still. In the cold no tree shook. Ahead, a molding sign hung haphazardly on rusted hinges. Inside a large building, residents lay asleep, waiting patiently for the new day’s sun to rise. An old truck slowly pulled up to the gloomy gates of the asylum and hesitantly stopped.

“This’ll be your stop,” the driver looked through his rear view mirror. There, in the back seat sat a young man, no more than thirty years of age. His dark locks were slicked back, his thin spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose. He was clad in a dark formal suit with no tie and black shiny shoes. On his lap rested a small suitcase which he gripped so tightly his hands appeared a ghostly white.

“Sir, this is your stop,” the driver repeated.

“I heard you the first time, “the man replied.

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