Letters From After, Day 8

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Dear Bunky,

I don’t think the people here have any sense of humor. I wrote an apology letter to the sergeant in charge of these barracks, but I included a little message in disguise for him and holy moley was he not a happy camper when he found it. I suppose I was a little rude, but I was sent to bed without any supper, and you know how much I look forward to meals here.

It’s starting to feel like fall around here, and the leaves are turning nice shades of red and yellow and orange. Well, there’s one clue about where they took us — closer to Maine than to Louisiana. At this rate you’ll find me in 20 years or so.

I have a funny feeling I’ve seen my last snowfall, though. I mean, they hauled us off to this re-education camp to wash our brains clean of these funny notions we have about freedom and individual rights, and here I am still thumbing my nose and not getting with the program.

I’m not seeing prospects for a happy ending. Do they still teach Patrick Henry in schools anymore? Somehow I doubt it. I know how he must have felt when he said give me liberty or, well, you know …

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