Down here, where we’re at // Everyone is equally poor // Down here, we don’t care // We don’t care what happens outside the screen door

The Anarchist Collective is shifting to southern hospitality mode. Enrique puts his bike on the rack in the hall and the crowd around the table yells a hearty welcome. He gets a giant pitcher of lemonade as Indigo in her tattoo sleeves under overalls ushers him to his favorite repose on the porch swing, insisting “when’s the last time you had a good sit down?” The screen door slams behind them. Smoke rises in the distance beneath Helios’s watchful eye.

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