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Who is this sassy lost child
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Sure. Not confident, hardly an affirmation. But it was enough.

Jerkily, Georgia Lee nodded. "Okay."

They couldn't just leave it at that, though. There had to be a plan, a contingency in case they ran into trouble, some kind of structure so that they wouldn't find themselves wandering aimlessly and endlessly. She sat back down, searching for an unmarked space on the table's surface.

"First, let's make a list of all the things we'll want to pick up if we find them. More food and water, for one thing, and- and any useful weapons." She spared Olivia a glance which she tried to make friendly and gentle. "If we stumble across a pack of cards, we can take that too. Anything else?"

She took their suggestions, carving them into the table in tiny scrawl, cramped there by their games and the names of the dead and dying. It took longer than she had initially thought, but she was at least somewhat satisfied with the result.

"First thing in the morning, we'll go look around. Better to wait in case we have to vacate the area quickly, and then we won't be tired."

Georgia Lee found that she had difficulty getting to sleep that night; the suggestion of leaving for the first time in days had instilled a restlessness in her, or rekindled that which had already been there but suppressed.

"That is a great responsibility, to be the master of one's own fate."

"Of course. We are the subjects of the heavens, and so are not bound by the laws of the earth. This world is as an egg, and one day you will will hatch from it to your eternal reward, God willing. Until then you are free, absolutely, to do whatever you will, but know you this: if everything you do is your choice and your choice alone, then no one but you can be held accountable for how you act, or what fate befalls you, and know you too that there most assuredly will be an accounting."

When she did sleep, she dreamed of flying.

((Georgia Lee Day continued in Until Then, You Are Free))
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."

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Get Me Away From Here, I'm Dying · The Cafeteria