By Dan Domench

After I’d been sitting on the floor in the afternoon heat for more than three hours, the door finally opened and Becca Salman marched toward me. A batik-dyed dress rippled around her legs and nearly covered the gum soles of her skate shoes. She shook my hand and pulled me to my feet. Her shoulders glistened with perspiration. The front of my T-shirt was dark with sweat.

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