The line of cars started alongside the makeshift tents. It snaked through abandoned fair ground concessions—dotted with wayward cups and haphazard propane tanks—and ended miles later beyond the stockyards.
Ben fidgeted in the driver's seat. “This is fuckin’ madness,” he grumbled, “and you hacking up a lung.”
I lifted my mask to pop another flavorless lozenge, choking back a cough as dry as the Sahara, and cracked my window.
“Roll it up. Smells like shit out there,” Ben shifted his eyes to the adjacent cattle barn.
Another cough. Another tear soaking my mask. I hadn’t smelled a thing in days.
By Lisa H. Owens
Just 100 Words
100 Word Stories - March, 2023 Photo Prompt
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