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By Michael Augsberger ’10

I was lounging in a bathtub when the police called. Despite the messy relationship between flip-phones and water, I managed to answer.

illustration by Nolan Pellitier

“Would you like to come down to the barracks?” the state trooper asked.

You don’t hide from the police, especially if you have something to hide. Good liars don’t feel the tremors, the sweat, the Sherman McCoy panic, the overall social ineptitude that plague me in these situations. That evening, as the trooper led me downstairs to the interrogation room, I struggled even to walk. I could go to jail.

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