We're all piled into the Methodist Church's preschool, in which they've set up planks on sawhorses, and the planks are heaped with hundreds of books. The air is hot and there's a constant shuffling and reshuffling as we try to make our way around each other without touching to get a better look at the books.
I excuse myself to a bearded fellow who is perusing the history table, and as I maneuver around him, he says, "It's okay, we're all here for the same thing."
"Well," says Katie, "at least we're not all here for meth."
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