She finally had friends. By then, she was so desperate for friends that each one was a drop of water to rehydrate the desiccated husk of her sense of self. She loved them for that, but also for how purposeful they were. They weren’t like her bland high school friends who were all falling in line and coupling and working and marrying and giving birth now. Her union friends had sharp opinions and spiky personalities and stood up to the status quo. They cared about everything; they didn’t turn away from suffering. They sat in. They laid in. They died in. They marched. They plotted. They worked
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