March 4, 2009

Every few feet, another man sold them: important-looking folders in red, green, blue. The men held them open, displaying a certificate with SAMPLE and an eagle shield across it.

“Let’s get some,” I said, tugging at my father’s hand. “Let’s buy them for ours.”

My father, hurrying so we wouldn’t be late, shook his head and kept on toward the doors of the auditorium. “We don’t need fake leather folders,” he said. “We’re going to be real citizens.”

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