Nothing really got going at the Pavilion in Detroit Lakes until 10 p.m. back in my late teen years.
But my parents always insisted I be home by midnight. The 45-minute drive home left me little time to watch the activities, let alone get involved or in trouble. At least none I ever admitted.
This post is one in a series of short posts including the number 10 in the first sentence, a requirement of the San Diego Writers and Editors Guild anthology submission in 2021.