It’s the first morning of a long-awaited break. You’ve earned it—months of deadlines, overtime, and that “I’ll rest later” lie Americans tell themselves until a boarding pass finally makes it real. Then, right as the plane door closes, it happens: a stranger behind you unleashes a wet cough into open air.
Fast-forward to the beach you dreamed about: salt air, warm sand, that first exhale. And right next to your towel—someone’s empty bottle, a greasy wrapper, and a half-buried cup like the shoreline is a trash can.
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