colette_icon.gif grace_icon.gif

Scene Title Anniversary
Synopsis Two years ago, Colette Nichols awoke to a world she didn't know, and the anniversary of that day is an unfortunate one.
Date December 3, 2008

The late afternoon on a Wednesday is a sedate time of day, a relatively quiet afternoon hour set upon the middle of the week. For most New Yorkers, it's a day like any other. Each day, like all others, holds a certain level of significance for everyone individually. Each day holds memories of things that have come to pass both in the present, and the distant past. Today for a handful of people is an intersection of past and present, which creates a malleable point in time which can shape the direction of the future.

And it all starts with a phone call.

The name and number flashing on the front of Grace's cell phone displays a name she may well have been expecting a call from as of late, given everything that has happened over the weekend. When DEMSKY, J appears on the front of her phone, it signals the end of sedation in this midweek. It — given recent events — likely only means trouble. But the phone is ringing, and one of two people could potentially be on the other end of it.

This particular number from that particular card doesn't go to Grace's personal phone — it's the one she keeps for business contacts, the personal (read: Ferrymen business) phone being switched out on an irregular basis. The LCD screen is regarded with a thoughtful look and a very slight, subtle quirk of her lips, the device allowed to ring twice more before she lifts it to her ear. "Bit by Bit Computer Consultants, Grace Matheson speaking. How may I help you?" The woman's gravelly voice utterly mangles what should be a warm and chipper (if perfectly textbook) greeting — which is, of course, precisely why she uses it.

There's a long and quiet silence on the other end of the phone for a few moments, it's likely that Grace's greeting isn't one that was expected. Then, breaking the silence is an awkward and choked up voice of a familiar young woman, "Grace?" As if she simply isn't sure who's on the other end. "I-It's Colette," as if Grace wasn't sure enough already. "I — I need someone to talk to." Her words are short and clipped, and it's obvious she's struggling to keep composure. "C-can — Can — are you busy?" From the greeting, it's clear she's not sure if Grace is at work at the moment.

There's a much shorter silence on Grace's end, as she weighs the request. She is not a shoulder to be wept on, thank you very much. On the other hand… well. The girl's maybe pulling out of her funk, which would be good. Grace can probably handle that. "Not too busy, no," the woman decides. "What did you have in mind?"

"I'm…" Colette's voice on the other end trails off as she starts to respond, and for a moment there is silence once more. "I'm at six thirty-three, second avenue. It — It's right on the corner of second and thirty-fourth street." The absolute edge of the burn and destruction zone, about two streets ahead of the concrete barricades and FEMA roadblocks that keep people out of the most dangerous portions of the city. It's an area, while in the process of reclamation, is still in ruins and without electricity. "Apartment 807." She's in one of the ruined buildings. "I — Could…" And she trails off yet again. "I need someone to talk to."

"Interesting choice," Grace observes. "All right. I should be there in less than fifteen." With that, the call is ended, and the woman pauses only to collect a few items — namely jacket, gun — before heading out.

The walk out to Midtown from Greenwich Village is a quiet one, the phone doesn't ring again. On the way there, traveling up 11th Avenue and across West 23rd street, Grace is given a long view of the ruins that loom in the distance. Up the streets that run to the north side of the city, she can see the jagged and broken skyline rising up like broken fingers. The gray-white walls of concrete barricades raised to keep people out of the danger zones stand like monolithic sentinels to ward off intruders from this no-man's land, while breaks in the wall go as unseen reminders of the government's presence that still remains present on the borders to keep an eye on radiation levels and protect the citizens of New York from unintentional contamination.

34th street itself was only re-opened to civilian traffic a few months ago, as rubble was cleared from the roads. However orange caution signs Grace walks by warn of the still treacherous and untended streets. Out this close to the burn zone, electricity still isn't running. Street lights are blackened and dead, and grass grows up through cracks and fissures in the pavement. From here, one might imagine what New York would look like if it were entirely abandoned.

At the street address Colette supplied, there looms a towering building once faced entirely with glass. The shockwave from the bomb, while not strong enough to demolish the building, still shattered its western face and for a long time left heaps of glass strewn about the street. While the debris has long since been cleaned here, the building still remains an open and skinned husk of a structure.

Across the street, St. Vartan Cathedral slouches like a weary bodyguard to a statuesque king. Having been directly west of the tall apartment building, St. Varna Cathedral suffered the brunt of the bomb's shockwave, shattering stone and blowing out windows, sparing the first fifteen floors of the tall glass-faced complex from the most severe damage. All of these buildings, while outside of the danger-zone, are still unavailable for occupation by mandate of the Federal government.

That doesn't exactly stops squatters though.

Unlike this section of street in its heyday, the roadsides at the corner of 2nd and 34th are empty, save for a few abandoned and vandalized cars. Dead neon signs on the bottom floor of the tall building proclaim the presence of a once high-profile restaurant that secured the ground floor to itself. Now it lies abandoned, its windows boarded up with plywood covered in spray-painted graffiti.

The lobby of the apartment complex that shares the remainder of the building is vacant. A Security desk with no one present, dead and blackened monitors that would have observed the hallways, elevators open to empty shafts. Fallen ceiling tiles and exposed wiring, all amidst a tiled floor littered with broken glass. Looks like it'll be the stairs.

The jog is just far enough to be an almost pleasant jaunt, at least if its /purpose/ is disregarded. Not enough distance to tax Grace in any real sense. That brown windbreaker is worn over a dark blue blouse, the latter visible largely because she unzips the jacket after slowing to a walk. One hand rakes through windblown black hair, setting it into something resembling order. Cautiously, Grace picks her way through the building to the apartment Colette indicated. Stairs? Also not any problem. Certainly not a mere eight flights of them. Her right hand remains empty, poised to reach for that holstered gun if any unexpected surprises emerge from the shadowed halls. Perhaps oddly, she holds a cellphone in her left hand, its screen dark in standby. Even though there aren't any towers left in Midtown from which to get a signal.

The door to apartment 807 is open when Grace makes her way out of the stairwell and down the hall of the 8th floor. Most of the other apartment doors are as well, looking like they were forced open, likely during the evacuation and reclamation process. Through the doorway, it's clear that the apartment is on the west-face of the building. While the glass windows that dominate the spacious wood-floored living room withstood the blast thanks to the cathedral across the street, they're still spider-webbed with cracks.

The apartment itself looks to have been ransacked, likely multiple times in the two years that have gone. Nothing of value remains; No television, no furniture, not even spoiled food. A pair of toppled bookshelves and a few knocked over chairs that might have once sat around a space where a diningroom table could have been are still around, though. The refrigerator on the way in has its doors opened, but no food contents within, just bare plastic shelves crookedly set inside. Another sign of just how desperate people were for anything after the bomb.

Across from the entrance to the apartment, a familiar silhouette sits by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlook the ruined cathedral across the street. With her legs pulled up to her chest, and her arms hugging them close, Colette at first looks overwrought and emotional just as she had days ago. However, her face, once viewed behind the jagged fringe of her dark bangs and the drawn up hood of her sweatshirt, shows no signs of emotion — not even restrained. She just sitting amidst the ruined apartment, gazing out listlessly at the orange glow of sunset illumination and the long shadows cast by the city.

Grace isn't a really stealthy person — she never had a need to develop such a skill. So it's likely Colette heard her progress across the floor in question, the cessation of footsteps outside the very open door of 807. The woman doesn't speak immediately upon arrival, but looks at the girl for a moment, then to the red rays of light outside. And then back again. "So. You running away again, or just wallowing in the general destruction and decay?" The words are deliberately blunt, yet that ruined voice cool enough for its reserve to be equally premeditated, saving the statement from being scathing. It is, however, most definitely pointed, edged, and intended to get some kind of reaction.

"I woke up today, actually." Colette's voice is quiet and soft, not reactionary and sharp like normal, and her half-blinded gaze lingers on a fixed point in space; perhaps even her own cracked and muted reflection in the glass of the window. "Two years ago t'the day," She turns her head, looking up through her bangs to Grace in a sedate manner. "I woke up in a hospital after the bomb. I lost almost a whole month, and today's the two-year anniversary of wakin' up." She turns to look back out over the ruined skyline, to the destroyed cathedral just across the street. Then, after a moment of consideration, Colette hangs her head and manages a distorted smile, "Thanks, for… for actually coming out here. I didn't expect you to." She's so much more calm than she was a few days ago, but at the same time there's an uneasiness about her, she's still not acting like herself, or at least the Colette that Grace met in Roy Wilkens Park the first time.

Colette leans forward and then pushes herself up to her feet with an exhaled sigh. wrapping her arms around herself, she lets her mis-matched eyes scan around the floor of the apartment in a vacant manner, then drift up to look at Grace. "I… I'm not really sure why I called you here. I just — I needed…" She squeezes her arms a little tighter around herself, maybe it's from the cold. It's likely not. "Today's…" She closes her eyes, "Not been a good day?" There's an awkward crook of her lips into a sarcastic smile. "I didn't want to be alone." She doesn't seem to be pleased with the idea of needing company. But on the same token, she's the one who asked for it.

It might be ironic that Grace regards this meek and apologetic Colette with a faintly wary air, even as she eases her way into the apartment. An attitude of 'exactly what is it you expect me to do?' She comes to a halt beside one of the walls, leaning the nearest shoulder against it and facing the girl obliquely. "When I was your age, a couple years younger," the woman remarks, rasping voice carrying poorly in the vacant apartment's dead air, "I just about fought tooth and nail to be left alone." Empathy isn't exactly Grace's strong suit, but maybe talking's worth something? Isn't that what shrinks do? Or something? "Prove I could hack it by myself, I guess the psychs would say. Independence. Whatever." It's clear she doesn't really care what they'd make of it.

"I'm not that strong, never have been…" Colette looks away after murmuring the words quietly, "…people were always saving me." She takes a few steps forward, moving into diffuse light spilling through the windows, and the shadows of the cracks in them are cast across her face. In the light, it's clear her eyes are reddened and puffy, same with her nose. "I wish I was like you." It looks as though she's been crying, more so than usual, and recently. "Strong, independant." Her voice, too, has a raspy horseness to it. Not quite the same as Grace's, thankfully, but still rougher than usual. "This…" She motions to the center of the apartment with a nod of her head, "This was the apartment I shared with my sister when she took me from our parents." It's a notable change of topic away from her moping.

Her booted feet step lightly across the floor, crunching across the broken glass of a picture frame smashed on the floor. Grace notices the corner of the picture folded over out of the broken front of the flipped over frame, depicting a dark-haired woman seated at a table of some kind. The rest of the picture is obscured behind the back of the frame.

"I haven't been here since the day before the bomb." The young girl's lips curl up into a rueful smile. "I… I don't even remember what happened the day everything changed." One hand reaches out to let reddened fingertips brush over a dust-covered countertop in the kitchenette, leaving a few clean streaks on it's surface.

From a hallway that leads to a pair of bedrooms, some clicking and scraping comes trotting down the hall, as that brown and black dog that was dragging Colette around in Chinatown comes walking into the livingroom. He pauses upon seeing Grace, head tilting to one side with a lazy flop of an ear. Then he merely pads past her to stare out the window and sniff at where Colette was sitting earlier. "Should I register?" Colette turns to look back over her shoulder at Grace, "You — you know what I am. I mean — I — " She furrows her brows and lowers her head. "I don't know what to do. T-there's someone I care about a lot, and she's one of th — " The girl winces, curling her fingers closed to her palm. "She's like me." The words are bitter and cold. "She's not registered. Don't think she could be, either." She pauses in her wandering, still watching Grace.

"Then, there was this guy I knew… He protected me, when Judah was in the hospital. I — He was registered." Was. Knew. Lots of past-tenses there. "He was a Federal Agent, I… He was…" Colette lurches for a moment, resting her hand on the countertop and then slumps forward curl rest her forehead on her arms. She sniffles, then lets out a soft sob, her shoulders heaving slighly. Her fingers curl tightly into fists, raking across the dusty countertop, and she straightens up and slams a fist down onto the counter as hard as she can, letting out a whimpering sound as she does. "God damnit." Colette whines out the words, "It's not fair."

Grace listens as Colette shapes her thoughts into words, sets them loose on the air. And in the end, the woman's first response is a snort. "People tried to save me. I was too stubborn and stupid to want it. Everything that worked out worked despite me." Her second response is to fold her arms across her chest, watching Colette whimper at the counter. "Earth to Colette: Life bloody well isn't fair. Never has been, never will be." Harsh intent makes that gravel-on-broken-glass voice harsher still. "You want fairness? You'd have to be making it for yourself." She manages not to say that whining about it won't get the girl anywhere. No need to beat the dead horse — or indulge her own inclination to argue. Although it wouldn't take much nudging, at this point.

Drawing in a breath to help keep that urge down, Grace lets it out in a quieter huff. She doesn't apologize or take back the words, but such might be implied. "You're asking me about Registration." Okay, so Colette doesn't know her (very strong) opinion. "There's not much difference, from where I'm sitting, between Registration and the yellow that was once used to mark Jews. Except that one uses a computer and can be accessed from anywhere in the whole damn world." Grace's lips press into a thin, bitterly distasteful line. "The whole thing is an affront to the Constitution which defines this country. No state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any state deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law." Yes. She can quote from it on the spot.

It's not the sharp reaction that stirs Colette from her fretting, it's the clinical explanation of registration from Grace's point of view. The young girl furrows her brows together, watching her with a puzzled expression. There's no way she could have known Grace's standpoint on the issue, let alone her affiliations, not that the later is voiced openly. "I — " She stares at the dark-haired woman with some confusion, and it's the act of confusion that makes her grief a bit easier to deal with. She's already gotten most of the crying out of the way, either way, he wouldn't want to see her like this.

"I thought that's what we're supposed to do." Colette looks down at the countertop, then wipes at her eyes with her sleeve. "I — We're supposed to get registered, to — because it's right." She stares blankly at Grace for a moment, "Right?" The last part is more rhetoric than not. It's clear the Jew analogy only partly stuck to her, as there seemed to have only been passing familiarity there. The most she knows about World War II comes from movies or television, she never was much of a strong study.

"You didn't register?" It seems she assumes anyone who's against registration is someone who would be registered. "I — " Eyes warily scan up and down Grace. "Are — are you one of those terrorists?" It doesn't even sound like she believes the notion, "I — Is that — is that why you were in Chinatown? All those explosions, was — " But she can be paranoid enough to make herself believe anything. "I'm — I'm sorry." Paranoid enough to be afraid, on top of emotional. "Is — is that why you left? B-because Judah's a cop?" All she knows is television and movies. And it's clear how television portrays anti-registration most of the time.

Grace looks down at Colette. It's only not a stare because she does blink. She just regards the girl in silence for a long, long while, frustration bordering on the temper that comes rather too easily to the fore. Confrontation is Grace's answer to personal difficulties; it has been ever since she was a child, the root cause of the damaged voice she almost wears as a badge of pride. Confrontation of that sort isn't going to help here. "I'm not Evolved, Colette," she states, words clipped and stiff. "That doesn't mean I automatically believe it's right."

Too internally riled to stand still any longer, the woman strides across the apartment to look out one of the windows, careful to avoid the greater disaster zones of the ruined apartment. Yet she turns to face Colette almost immediately after getting there. "I left because my responsibility was to see you home, not to deal with your shellshock. I've got no tolerance for… moping kids." She manages not to say 'whiny brats'. Barely. "Cops don't bother me none. And no. I'm not a terrorist. That isn't the answer to anything," Grace concludes, with feeling. "Damn fools are only making everything worse," she says, stuffing her hands in her pockets and staring out the window.

"If you believe it's right," Grace remarks quietly, after another period of silence, "…why are you asking me if you should?"

Colette shrinks back at Grace's remarks, and it's clear she's not used to people telling her things straight and without sugar-coating it. She's not used to having someone throw her own attitude right back at her, and it's something of a slap in the face to rouse her from what's been dragging her down, both in the past and in the present. She watches Grace's movements, following her with her mis-matched gaze. The girl grimaces slightly, looking away as she begins to think the whole situation has been nothing but a burden for Grace. But there is that one bit, that her responsibility was to see Colette home. Her brows furrow, and she shoots a glare up at Grace, "I didn't ask you to take me home. I didn't ask for your help." It's about all the venom she's got, and it isn't much, because the longer she thinks about Grace's last question, the harder it gets to justify it.

She slouches her shoulders, bringing up two hands to run over her face as she breathes out a sigh between her fingers. "Not everyone deals with things the same way as you do." Her brows knit together, "I'm sorry I'm mopey. I'm sorry I've got problems, and I'm more sorry I asked for you to come out here!" Colette kicks at the ground, sending that broken picture frame scuttling and bouncing in the direction of Grace, but it doesn't end up near her.

"One of the few people I could really relate to just fucking died today. Of all the fucking days!" She storms across the room to Grace, glaring up at her with hands shaking at her sides. "I just — I wanted someone to — Why did you even come down here!?" Her emotions fly wildly off of the handle, "All…" She looks away, scrunching her face up into a tight expression of conflicting emotions. "I just want someone to tell me what to do…" Her eyes flick back to Grace, face bright red but a lot of the shout taken out of her, even if directed at the wrong person. "I don't know what to do." Her eyes waver from side to side, peering focused at Grace's, "I'm scared."

"Doesn't matter, brat." What could've been a mild insult is actually spoken without heat, without rancor. Give her an argument, and Grace is on comfortable terrain once more. She turns back to look at the girl; a hint of smile curves her lips. "You're civ'; I'm not. Asking doesn't have anything to do with it."

Grace doesn't even bat an eye at the picture frame that isn't going to get anywhere near her. "You're clearly not very sorry," the woman counters. "You've got problems? Welcome to the real world. We've all got problems. You don't have to deal like I do — but it's learn to deal somehow or get left in the dust, girlie."

Those clear blue eyes are level and steady, heated in a way that ruined, rasping voice can never quite be. For one thing, it doesn't do volume so well. Not anymore. "You're almost an adult. You planning on hanging to someone's coattails your whole damned life?" Grow a backbone. But she makes the effort to rein the words in again once Colette stops shouting. "We talked about that already," she reminds the girl, voice more muted but not precisely describable as kind. Grace pauses for a moment, then mentally backpedals to a question she hadn't quite addressed. "Why?"

A moment's pause. "When I met you, you reminded me a lot of me. Because life dealt you a crappy hand and you tried to make something better of it. Hell, I figure you did better with your hand than I did with what I had," the woman admits, running her fingers through her hair. "Because I'm a bloody idiot who can't just keep my nose in my own business. Because I've been infected by the people I served with, who'd fight and die for people like you." Grace waves a hand at the battered, broken apartment. "Doesn't matter what you are. Doesn't matter if you dig a hole in the sand and hide in it forever. Or whatever. You're…" Another gesture, this one less definite, less punctuating and more reaching. Reaching for words that can only be inadequate. That she fails to find even the inadequate ones doesn't really change anything. "Because I can. Because it's right. Because it needs to be done."

She's transfixed by Grace's words, lost in the depth of words she hasn't yet experienced from the much older woman. Her mis-matched eyes stare up wordlessly to her, mouth slightly agape. There's things she doesn't know — things she may never know — about who Grace really is, but the chunk deposited in her lap there is enough for her to chew on for a good long while. The bulk of it deflates her pumped up attitude and causes her to slink back in on herself, makes her reconsider, rethink, but in the end doesn't spoon-feed her the answers like she wanted. All this time, Jupiter silently watches on as the orange-yellow glow of the sun starts to dim outside, and night threatens to cast the apartment into darkness.

Colette's only response at first is to huff out a sigh and turn away from Grace, removing her foot from the remainder of the photograph that was dislodged from the kicked frame. "I don't know what's right," She casts her eyes down to the floor. "For me." A clarification of moderate importance. "I know… I know what I should do, but — I'm — I'm afraid to make a mistake." She winces at her own words, quickly catching up to them to prevent interjection. " — I know. Life's all about mistakes, or something like that. I just…" She turns to look back up at Grace, stepping back over to her, letting one booted foot fall to the side of the photograph. "Grace, I… I killed that guy." Her hands shake a little, "T-the… the one person I wanted to turn to for advice is — he's gone. And I'm worried Judah's going to… to lose everything trying to protect me." She looks to one side, "I already lost my sister." The black haired woman in the photograph on the floor, the one sitting next to an old white-haired man. One Grace recognizes.

Colette doesn't notice, or doesn't recognize, or doesn't care. She stares down at her feet, spotting the picture, and smiles bitterly. "I've never had to think for myself before, Grace." Her eyes uplift from the picture. "When you saw me, I — I was just running away. That's not an answer, running never is. I — I gotta' square my shoulders, and keep my head up." At least something stuck in her head about that conversation. "I just don't know what to do after that…"

"Mistakes are like fear," Grace remarks. The rasping burr of her voice completely fails at softness — yet the quietness of the words, the somber mien with which they are spoken, implies something. Regret, perhaps; some memory, some chord. "The very worst thing you can do is let them stop you. You keep going. Keep moving. Right or wrong. It's like walking on those cracked blocks in what's-it, Mario. You stop, you fall." The woman shrugs. "Maybe you fall so far you'll never get back up. You won't always have someone to haul you kicking and screaming back out of the hole." She cants her head slightly, regarding Colette. "People die. You'll never forget them. Not the ones who matter to you, and not any you feel responsible for." She doesn't seem to support the whole 'Colette killed him' idea.

Her lips quirk to one side at Colette's final remarks. "Running may not be an answer. But it's a start. Tends to buy you time to find the answer." Grace is quiet for a moment, and then she shrugs. "If Judah does? That's his decision. It's not your right to make it for him. He's a cop, Colette. You don't enter that profession without the willingness to give up everything for people — not and do it well, anyway. Maybe people you know. Maybe people you don't. But it comes with the badge." That wry, lopsided bit of a smile returns. "Sure, it's not fair. See the previous statement about life and fair."

Colette rolls one shoulder, taking a step away from Grace and looks over to Jupiter. She manages a faint smile, then tugs at her lower lip slightly, "I can't run." She seems rather certain of this, "I shouldn't." She closes her eyes, covering her face with one hand, "I think he needs me as much as I need him…" She hates the sound of that, needing someone. After being in the places she's been, after being alone for so long the thought of it conflicts with so many details. She wants to be protected and guided, but at the same time wants to figure out who she really is. More so now than ever.

"It's getting dark." It's not an answer to anything, but her questions aren't ones you can answer in a night. She looks from Jupiter to Grace, with a mild smile. "Thanks for… letting me shout and… and not being soft with me." One hand waves at Jupiter, and the old dog slowly rouses from where he was sitting, padding over to stand by Colette's side. "I… I think m'gonna go home." Her brows furrow together in a thoughtful, but conflicted look, "On my own." Not that there was an offer to the contrary, but it makes her feel good.

"Thanks…" Colette looks down to the floor, "For… being patient with a stupid kid." She scratches idly at the side of Jupiter's head, and the dog leans in to the affection gladly. But as her focus shifts back up to Grace, there's just silence in her eyes as she turns and starts to head for the door. Running isn't the answer, and apparently, neither is going backwards.

"Everyone needs other people," Grace points out. "Even if they refuse to admit it." She learned that the hard way; her lips quirk in a clear, rueful smile. "Maybe especially then." She drifts in the direction of the door as well, though without crowding either girl or dog. "Be careful on your way home," the woman says.

Of course, she's not just going to let Colette wander home by herself after dark. But she'll give the girl that illusion, either until she gets on a bus or reaches Le Rivage, whichever comes first and forces them to part ways. The woman figures Jupiter, being 1) familiar with Grace, 2) a bomb dog rather than patrol and 3) intelligent, won't draw attention to the watchful shadow tagging along behind. And in the dark, even Grace can sneak well enough to be overlooked by a preoccupied teenage girl.

Like she said before. Not asking for it doesn't change the fact that the responsibility exists.

Colette pauses by the doorway and turns to look back at Grace. Jupiter halts as well, head quirking to the side and looking up at the girl as if to say what's taking you so long? She manages a faint smile, eyes drifting down to her feet for a moment, then past Grace to the photograph on the floor. Her brows furrow together, and she slips back into the apartment, looking Grace up and down silently as she does. The girl crouches, pushing a few pieces of the broken frame away to pull up the picture. There's a fond, heart-felt smile on her lips, and she straightens, tucking the photograph into the pouch of her hoodie.

Mis-matched eyes focus on Grace for a time, and she smiles faintly, "Gotta' remember what I lost." She mumbles, "So I remember what I've got…" Then, with a weak smile, she turns back away from Grace and makes her way to the door again. "Come on, Jupiter." Her head jerks to one side, and the dog begins trotting ahead of the young girl, leading the way after giving Grace one last look.

Colette may not have been spoon-fed an answer, but she got something far better:

The will to find one on her own.


December 3rd: Mistaken Insanity - The Escape
December 3rd: Arts and Crafty
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