As I made my way into Anchorage, a hunchbacked Indimo woman called out. Apparently, I was the spitting image of her son. She told me she had eleven children with a German. Every single one blonde-haired and blue-eyed, despite all evidence to the contrary. I attempted to continue on my way. She stopped me, reached into her pocket, and pressed the hilt of a hunting knife into my palm. “You’re gonna need this where you’re going, kid.”
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