My mojo
Her reflection was, at best, unconvincing, but desperate times called for questionable outfits.
The two-mile trek to Mr. Bradley's farm took an hour, mostly because she spent the walk practicing her deep, gravelly "man voice." By the time she arrived, a handful of brawny men were already sitting outside the farmhouse, waiting to be interviewed. Mustering her courage, she squeezed between two men and attempted some awkward small talk.
"Good morning, gentlemen," she croaked.
A few of the men grunted in response.
"So... um... good, right?" she added, to dead silence. Deciding silence was the better option, she waited for her turn.
Bab Populer