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So, findin’ a prossie—where d’ya even start? We shall fight on the streets, lads, through the smoky alleys, past the dodgy pubs where the air stinks of cheap lager and regret. I reckon it’s a war, yeah? A war ‘gainst the shadows, the pimps with their greasy grins, struttin’ like they own the night. Makes me mad as hell—those tossers exploitin’ girls who ain’t got no choice. Reminds me of the Corsican in *A Prophet*, pullin’ strings, thinkin’ he’s king. “I’m the boss here,” he’d growl. Bollocks to that, I say.

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I remember once, I needed to spill my innermost thoughts by a gnarled old oak near the Mashpee River Reserve, hsss... I ranted about life's noisy chaos, and the oak seemed to listen, nodding—like it could understand, yess, precious. The park near River Road? Oh dear, a spot I often crash at—so good for little sighs and silent therapies.

Michele Conners Selected As New Mashpee Superintendent