Riley’s POVIt's Sunday, 4:47 p.m. The last day of the Prayer festival. Everyone was either blissed out, blackout drunk, or feral. The main stage bass was a living thing — it thumped through the ground, up my legs, into my ribcage like a second heartbeat. I’d been holding it for hours, not just pee. The kind of need that makes your thighs clench and your stomach cramp. I waited too long because the lines were insane and I was stupidly dancing instead of planning. Now, it was an emergency level.I pushed through the crowd, sticky skin brushing mine, someone’s elbow in my ribs, a girl screaming lyrics into her friend’s face. My tank top clung to my back, sweat trickling between my breasts, down my spine. My denim cutoffs were damp at the waistband.Finally, I stood in front of the porta-potty village. A grid of blue plastic units, half of them marked “OUT OF ORDER” with Sharpie graffiti and dried vomit streaks. The line snaked forever… some drunk guy pissing on trees, girls squat
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