Two summers ago, I took a trip to Seattle, Washington with my dad. We made a detour to Orca's Island, a teeny-tiny, Stars Hallow-type town inches away from Canada and filled with, you guessed it, orca whales. We rented the bedroom and bathroom set of a secluded yellow house the two days we were there. As grounds for a horror story, the worst thing that could possibly happen happened: the TV set didn't work.
We resorted to the ancient art of Netflix to satiate our entertainment needs. I watched some indie flicks while my dad snored on the other side of my headphones and the surf of the sea echoed just beyond my reach. I couldn't sleep for some reason; because I was in an unknown place, because I was sha...
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