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I take a left, then a right, then a left, driving aimlessly while my pulse finally begins to quit the marathon pace. I weave through Portland. Back and forth. Side to side. I pass playgrounds and schools. Churches and sporting fields.
I don’t pay attention to where I’m going. Not for a long time. Not until I find myself on a familiar street, with an even more familiar building coming up on my left.
The harmonious heart rate I worked toward starts to pound a deeper beat. A faster tempo. Slowly, I inch past the extravagant Torian family restaurant, my gaze firmly affixed to the people inside.
Couples eat. Families dine. Waitresses stroll around with trays of drinks and plates of food.
They’re all naive. Ignorant to the criminal pockets they’re filling.
It’s disgusting.
It shouldn’t be legal.
These people should know who they’re giving their money to. The crimes they’re supporting. The evil they’re encouraging.
My stomach churns with the need to do something. My insides turn and tumble, demanding more of me than I’m supposed to give.
More and more and more until I’m forced to pull over and take action.