The mad house
It’s 2 a.m. in Gatlinburg. I’m out on the deck of our cabin, hoodie engaged, enjoying the ha-ha-not-free wireless we paid $12 for. The world’s tiniest creek is babbling several feet below me. The wind is blowing and my feet, despite being besocked, are cold. My grandmother is just inside, her hearing aids resting on the night stand, a frightening C-PAP machine strapped to her face, the television blaring its early-morning mediocrity to the world.…
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