Personal Narrative: My Hoarder's House

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I didn’t know these people. I had at most, only spoken to these kids occasionally before we were stuffed into a hot white van for 10 hours. My palms became sweaty and I couldn’t bring myself to speak as the familiar scenery of Brookfield rolled into miles of empty farmers fields, gas stations and tourist traps. Everyone crammed in this van seemed to know each other so well, their endless talking blurred into a lul. I stretched out after spending what seemed like an eternity in such a small place. We had made it to a reservation in the middle of nowhere, South Dakota. The next week would be spent fixing doors for a house filled with endless sick, stray animals, replacing broken windows, and repairing the foundation of a hoarder's house upon
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