Resistance
Perry Johnson stood at the bus stop waiting for the number 89. Every workday evening he did this. The six twenty-five bus home was his.
He liked the regularity of it. This waiting around at the same time, same place. Regularity was a thing Perry enjoyed, something he needed.
If you’d asked him why he liked it, why it was he needed it, he’d probably have explained that he was not the type of person that thrived in chaos. He needed a purpose, some structure to his day if he was to see any sense in it. By way of explanation, he would no doubt have left it at that. Perry was a man of few words.
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