by Laura Mason

Stupid place. Video games? He knows how real terror feels. No imitation comes close. The thrill-seekers here are two-dollars-a-game chumps. The bar? No fake ID will convince anyone he's legal; he'll be showing his license until he's thirty.

So he doesn't play or drink, but he still drives here almost weekly.

Two years ago he first came here with Stokes, Delilah, Stan and Zeke. Ugly, expensive, noisy and smoky. Hated it.

He left early, the others still in the arcade, and when he reached the parking lot Zeke was waiting to push him against the car and kiss him stupid.


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