It’s a balmy Saturday afternoon, and a heavyset seventy-four year-old man walks into the general store. No stranger to this place, its his lifeline for morning essentials: diet cola, a “dollar scratcher” (lottery ticket), and a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit with a “touch” of mayo. Two hours later, he was dead.

It’s a balmy Saturday afternoon, and a heavyset seventy-four year-old man walks into the general store. No stranger to this place, its his lifeline for morning essentials: diet cola, a “dollar scratcher” (lottery ticket), and a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit with a “touch” of mayo. Two hours later, he was dead.

It’s a balmy Saturday afternoon, and a heavyset seventy-four year-old man walks into the general store. No stranger to this place, its his lifeline for morning essentials: diet cola, a “dollar scratcher” (lottery ticket), and a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit with a “touch” of mayo. Two hours later, he was dead.

It’s a balmy Saturday afternoon, and a heavyset seventy-four year-old man walks into the general store. No stranger to this place, its his lifeline for morning essentials: diet cola, a “dollar scratcher” (lottery ticket), and a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit with a “touch” of mayo. Two hours later, he was dead.

Monday morning is when Millie comes to C23; she always does. She brings colored pencils—freshly sharpened—coloring books, and masking tape. Claudia loves the fractal sheets. Swirling geometric patterns of leaves and nautilus shells.

“Everything spirals eventually in nature; it is no less beautiful,” she says.

It’s a balmy Saturday afternoon, and a heavyset seventy-four year-old man walks into the general store. No stranger to this place, its his lifeline for morning essentials: diet cola, a “dollar scratcher” (lottery ticket), and a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit with a “touch” of mayo. Two hours later, he was dead.