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Progress, Not Perfection 
by Charles Stafford

JENNIFER sat in the circle with the rest, eyes to the floor, toeing the curled edge of a warped linoleum tile with her turquoise pump. People chatted with their neighbors in hushed voices; barely audible nonsense flittered about her ears. Her ponytail was loose. She leaned back to smooth and gather her unwashed hair and retie her scrunchy.
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