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Bin three was the weird one: a shoebox of hotel keycards. The Mirage. The Tropicana. A Super 8 in Des Moines where the heater rattled like a snare drum. Each card marked a city, a show, a convention where she’d signed glossy 8x10s for men with kind eyes and women with nervous laughter. “You’re so real,” they’d say, and Kayla would nod, though she’d never felt less real than in those fluorescent ballrooms, smiling until her cheeks ached.

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