The work was backbreaking in the fields under the hot sun. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. The skin is cracked and peeling. In the adjacent row, Mrs. Thompson hunches over an empty basket, breathing heavily.

“Move it!” The overseer unfurls his whip.

I rush over, link arms with her, and help her to straighten up.

“My granddaddy always told me they would find a way.” She sighs. “But you millennials don’t go and vote.”

I bite my tongue. Even as our country regresses a century and a half, the elders don’t hesitate to blame us.

Let me know I'm not talking to myself.

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