It's an old house with a 20 year old water heater. Not your fault.

Still worth it. Even if the post-game rinse reminds you a little bit too much of the guards at the facility hosing you down for your weekly 'showers'.

You try to wash up as quickly as you can. April mornings haven’t thawed yet, and the water lines feeding your taps aren't buried deep enough. The tap water’s a few degrees above freezing.

You dry off with a week-old towel that feels a little stiff to the touch and make a note to do laundry soon.

Back in your room, Fatty has claimed your pillow like some furry little warlord. He gives a half-hearted growl when you poke at him. You poke again. He glares. You blink first. Damn cat thinks he owns the place. Whatever. You didn't really want that pillow anyway.

You found him under an abandoned trailer when you first moved to Austin. A true "Austin native".
A moniker the locals wear proudly like they had anything to do with where they were born.

Americans love the idea of lineage, of permanence, of tradition. It gives them a sense of belonging in a place built on erasure. They tell themselves that longevity equals legitimacy. The myth of roots, of “realness and authenticity”. Never mind how shallow those roots really are.

A young nation’s **** need to build mythologies out of plywood and prayer. Founding fathers turned prophets. The military as divine right. The past rewritten until it flatters the present, because facing the truth might mean admitting the dream’s already dead.

They didn’t build an empire, they won the lottery because the rest of the world imploded. And a hundred years later they still recite the same tired prayer. Greatest country in the world. America #1. God’s country, blessed and bulletproof.

They would happily watch the rest of the world burn again to preserve that lie, and if the world won't burn itself, they're certainly not above starting the fire themselves.

You reach over to rub Fatty's head and he twitches in surprise for a moment before relaxing into your hand.

Well, now you just sound like one of those terrorists, don't cha? What would you know? You're an unwelcome invader. Vermin. Rata.

Well, not anymore. You're now Ryan Gallagher. From Minnesota. Raised on corn, religion and good ol' fashioned common sense. If this country can reinvent itself with nothing but a flag and a slogan, you figure you can too.

You smile at the absurdity of it all.

"Ow."

Fatty bites your finger. You’ve apparently violated the invisible petting limit. You exaggerate a wince just to guilt him a little, but he stares back, unmoved, daring you to escalate.

You don’t. He looks away, he already knows you're not gonna do shit. Damn cat.

Okay, it's time to stop being so mopey and go back to sleep.

You close your eyes, thinking maybe you’ll drift off.

You don't. But to be fair, it's not like you didn't already know that would be the case.