There was the girl at Friday’s street dance who let the music enter her soul and spit it back out with dancing that could only make you smile and be a little jealous of her abandoning any notions of care for what those watching might have thought.
Wes Lane was responsible for making sure you turned down your thermostat.
Can you imagine the outcry today, likely “Socialist!” if Wes knocked on your door and asked you to keep that thing down at 65 during the day and 60 at night?
“Are you the announcer or something.”
Corey was standing a few feet from the sled run when she spoke; one hand on her hip, her other mittened hand trying to wisp away the strands of hair run renegade from under her cap.
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