By conservative estimates, there are currently enough wrongfully convicted people in prison in the United States to fill a football stadium.
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I’m sick of being defined by the prison experience and long to be a normal human being with a past that doesn’t need to be discussed.
After work we would be headed to Smitty’s Bar, where the twangy music would kick up, and I’d try to find the courage to dance in public.
They take turns at the feeders, but if one lingers too long, the others — usually males — will jabber insults until the offender leaves. I have a secret nickname for the house sparrows: Little A-holes.
A stolen letter, a posthumous package, a Christmas card from a stranger