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and four hundred dollars in my checking account. Dad shook my hand at the door—no hug, no “I’m proud of you,” just a firm handshake like I was being discharged from his command.
“Don’t come crying to me when that piece of shit Civic dies on you,” he said. “You wanted to go be a big shot. Go be one.”
Jordan at eighteen got handed the keys to a brand-new continue reading …
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