In the spring of my senior year in high school an 18-year-old Pony Express rider loped up to our house, took the mochila off his saddle, rummaged through it and handed me my acceptance letter.
In the spring of my senior year in high school an 18-year-old Pony Express rider loped up to our house, took the mochila off his saddle, rummaged through it and handed me my acceptance letter.