A while back I spoke with one of my best friends from childhood. Tom and I met when I was 8 years old, shortly after I’d been adopted from foster care. Back then, all of my worldly possessions were regularly stuffed into a single garbage bag as I prepared to move to yet another home.
Although Tom and I now only call each other about once a year, we remain close and share the ups and downs of our lives. Tom explained that he was recently fired from his job at Walmart and that his fiancée subsequently broke up with him. He went on to tell me about another old friend of ours who got into a fight outside a bar. The guy he was fighting suddenly pulled out a gun, and as he squeezed the trigger, our mutual friend grabbed the barrel to pull it away. He’s alive, but now he has a hole in his hand.
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