Right now, my 24-year-old daughter and a companion are somewhere along the Blue Ridge Parkway, perhaps at a campground in Great Smokey National Park. I envision the two comely young Sarah Lawrence film school graduates barricaded behind the old Subaru wagon they bought for their road trip, pepper spray and tasers at the ready as toothless, walleyed carnies escaped from the county fair ply them with moonshine, meth and fentanyl.
Not that I’m worried or anything. They’re big girls; they can take care of themselves. Besides, these National Park campgrounds are safe, right?
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