Austin Weynand

I’d never been inside of one before. An awkward, out-of-place-feeling little room nuzzled between a failing Irish pub and an antiques shop, I’d honestly forgotten these things existed in the vast metro area of my city. Until I needed one. College essay, see, and I hadn’t even begun it – just my luck for my laptop to obnoxiously die the weekend before the paper was due. I tried to borrow a friend’s computer, but no dice; as for plan B, my school’s library was out of rentable laptops. To the local, seedy internet café I went then, where I had always been told the poverty-stricken perverts surfed for porn and the seemingly parent-less children crowded around online games.