Postcard from the End of America: Oakland

"Jillian," she grinned. "Jill."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

"You don't look twenty-seven. You look maybe twenty-two, twenty-three."

"I'm twenty-seven."

"How long have you been on the streets?"

"Two and a half months."

"You should go home. Oakland's fucked up. Where are you from?"

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