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  • Zack Slansky


Monday means a slow, leisurely walk down to the pond, the one next to the saplings, after classes conclude. It is placid and clear; the bottom is a floor of worn rocks carpeted in lush moss. There are willowy reeds across from the edge where we sit, whispering contentedly in the breeze that blows sometimes as the sun sets and our shadows are cast behind us. We are skipping rocks without discussion, although once in a while an excellent toss prompts murmurs of appreciation. I haven't had much luck this particular afternoon, and my choices of stones tend to splash without so much as a glance off the water. I hear a snort of surprise. The girl next to me has skipped her phone into the water.

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