actually don’t care enough,” I say casually. “Unlike you, who cares too much. The charities, volunteer work, the cookies, the smiles. You need to live a little more for yourself and a little less for everyone else.” She stares at me, but doesn’t say anything. I hit a nerve, and I know she’ll think about it when we say our goodbyes. Nonetheless, we still have a few minutes to burn together. “So tell me—what are you passionate about, Winnifred?” She rubs at her chin, a tic she cannot conceal. “Mostly theater. Since I was a little girl, the stage has been my escape.” “What did you escape?” “The
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