Behind the modern glass doors of my clinic, tucked away in a corner of the parking lot where the ivy begins to reclaim the asphalt, sits a 2003 Honda Civic. It is a rusted, non-functional relic with a heater that died during the Obama administration, but I refuse to tow it away. To the patients of the Second Chance Community Clinic, it is just an old car. To me, Shelby Bennett, it is a monument to the coldest night of my life—the night I discovered that in the house of a Marine, love was not a biological right, but a...
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