From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Tactile
The rough wool of my breeches chafes against my skin as I crouch on the floor, my fingers tracing the notched grooves of these cedar Lincoln Logs. I’m building a fortress while the scratchy melody of "Till We Meet Again" crackles from the parlor, a constant reminder of the boys overseas. Ma is out shouting "deeds not words" at the rally, leaving me to scrounge through my pockets for a measly **$0.15** just to fill the motorcar’s tank. Everything feels heavy and abrasive, from the stiff canvas of my jacket to the looming shadow of the draft.