10 Winifred YatesBy the time Winnie spotted her car, she was out of breath.
This Monday morning, she’d had to park in a remote lot that was a ten-minute walk from her classroom.
At the lot’s edge, the well-watered and carefully-trimmed green lawns and plants stopped abruptly.
The barren vista beyond looked like some desert country on the other side of the world.
A cyclone fence topped with razor wire separated the pavement from the surrounding sweep of sunbaked dirt.
In Spokanistan, precious on-campus parking was well defended from the unstickered hordes.
Winnie focused on the gleaming silver hood of her car and trotted faster.
Sun blazed down on her head. Sweat dampened her hairline despite her springy outfit, a short-sleeve tropical print blouse over black pencil-leg slacks.
The
