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Katie Higinbotham
Writing
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Fight is a gene passed through channels we cannot see. On Marys Peak, ever-looming above our town, the tiger lilies erupted from an underground network of bulbs. Those who fought freezing temperatures and crushing snowbanks to bloom again, rising from between thick grasses and along roadside ditches glistening with snowmelt.

I stare into the drive-thru order box, the cars behind me now three deep.
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Decision fatigue. That’s what my therapist calls it. Decision fatigue must be what renders me silent in the Taco Bell lineup.

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