You sit back, letting out a slow breath that tastes like smoke and defiance. Abigail lowers the binoculars and shoots you a grin that’s equal parts mischief and steel. “Well,” she says, “we can’t just sit here and cry about it.” You turn to her, eyes blazing. Abigail pulls out a can of spray paint from her backpack, tossing it onto your lap like a grenade. “Ready to make some art?”
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