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The beginning of the line starts here.

But we slipped ahead of that mangy five-person group with inches to spare and took hold of the game room, blasting our way through pixelated aliens, grinding against concrete walls in cars that only sparked and never broke down only to explode in one magnificent impact at the end of the race. Even the dim-lighted corner proffered a weightless sword of destiny with endless resurrections from the dead. Our sugar coated finger prints coated each game terminal. The ridges and swirls of our hands as they gripped the podiums and buttons built up in layers of sweet pink. We moved on, sauntering out with game-winning bravado.

The satisfaction was short lived. Not two seconds later and we were rushing for the Hurricane panicked that it would start without us. Sneakers streaked over the well-worn pavement, and my heart starting beating against my chest as I envisioned the tip of my shoe tripping me into the ground. Until I reached the queue line I didn’t notice we were one short. Where did our fourth go? None were willing to leave the line, afraid to miss the next available ride, so we hoped that peering on our tip toes would suffice.

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