You're out on your deck in Priddis, the sun warming your shoulders, a cool drink in your hand. You're listening to the birds, the wind in the tall pines. And then you hear it. A different sound. A low, pulsing buzz. It's not a bee. It's a deeper, angrier hum. You look up, and there it is—a grey, papery football clinging to your eave, with a steady stream of black and yellow traffic flying...
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