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The Patron Saint of Flatliners

by K.A. Wiggins No one writes, “When I grow up, I want to be the patron saint of fentanyl overdoses,” in their fourth grade notebook. I mean, I hope no kid writes they want to be the patron saint of anything, ’cause that’s fucked up. Maybe if the freaks who adopted me had chilled for like half a sec, I’d’ve had a chance to be something. For a beat, I even had a path all worked out. Wanted to be an RMT, before this whole sainthood thing jumped me. That’s the fancy kind of massage, the kind where you go to school first, get stuck paying taxes and everything. A real grown-up profesh kind of job. Might’ve had my own place eventually, even. Not a super nice one, but decent. With a window that wasn’t broken and a bed up off the floor where it wouldn’t get all musty and gross. Cash coming in steady, without some asshole who did jack-all taking his stack off the top. Big dreams, y’know? Big, impossible dreams. Even though I knew better, knew they weren’t meant for my type. My bed as a kid w

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