Her hands were still shaking when she picked through
more junk mail to find an envelope from the Long Beach Truck Society. The
thought of facing more bad news made her shrivel deep inside where she
protected her tender dream to run a food truck. Would she be a dead duck or a
sitting one that had to submit more paperwork and wait? If the society knew she
was an ex-con, she’d be a gone goose. A cooked goose. Whatever simile she used fit.
She opened the envelope and read the first line, “Welcome
to the Long Beach Food Truck Society.” Tori read the notice once, then twice, and
closed her post office box without letting go of the business license packet. Completing
this first step filled her spirit like a tropical smoothie, but she wouldn’t
gain anything by putting off the second step. In a way, she’d laid groundwork. For a solid two weeks, she’d driven her
pickup from her apartment to the lot for lunch.
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