Imagine getting a phone call and it’s the FBI. Someone has accused you of a crime you didn’t commit. That’s horrifying enough, but then imagine them diving into your school yearbooks, talking to friends who saw you get drunk too many times on Pabst Blue Ribbon or Boone’s Farm, drudging up every stupid thing teenagers do and pinning it to your present self as if no time had passed.
Your guilt has already been determined from specters of your past. Imagine the helplessness. The frustration. The anger you would feel if all you can do is stand by in silence as the pages of your teenage years are printed for all to see — and for all to judge.
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