Over the speakers, the DJ—a creepy junior who runs the underground college radio—is talking about the crisis not so unlike a stoned art major. The broadcasts are more riddle than news, but Verity has taken a strange liking to them. “Seventy-two more hours of rain,” the radio crackles. He sounds like he’s inhaling from a cigarette or a blunt. “Grab a boat and some critters, because Forsyth is going biblical. If it doesn’t wash away our sins, they’ll probably bob to the surface and start floating down the Avenue like discarded Scratch baggies. If that worries you, then you’re a Royal. If it
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