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My bank account was a graveyard of numbers, each one a testament to my crushing debt.
One hundred and fifty-two thousand, four hundred and eighty-one dollars and sixty-two cents, to be exact.
It all started when Jennifer Chavez, my ex-colleague, whispered about an impending grid collapse.
I believed her. I drained credit cards, took out high-interest loans, and filled my Portland apartment with freeze-dried food and solar generators.
Then Jennifer posted from Bali, "#blessed."
The grid never went down. My life, however, did.
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