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1 (#ulink_07315b85-ad8b-5a41-b94f-a3d8186c1c4d)
Rampart, New York
The old burial grounds.
Nobody ever goes out there.
Chrissie was uneasy about her boyfriend’s birthday wish to “do it” there.
“That place gives me the creeps, Robbie.”
“Come on, babe. Think of it as your first time with an eighteen-year-old man, and our first time in a graveyard. How cool is that?” Robbie sucked the last of his soda through his straw, then belched. “Besides, we’ve done it everywhere else in this dog-ass town.”
Sad but true. There was not much else to do here.
Rampart was a tired little city in Riverview County, at the northern border of New York. It was home to small-town America—flag-on-the-porch patriots, fading mom-and-pop shops, a call center for a big credit card company, a small Amish community and a prison.
The way Chrissie saw it, all people in Rampart did was work, get drunk, have sex, bitch about life and dream of leaving town.