“Bullshit,” Dustin told his monitor, banging down his fourth beer hard enough to cause a surge of foam to bubble out the top of the bottle and run over his hand. He flicked his wet fingers at the screen in distaste. The screen however, appeared not to mind in the least. He had an irrational urge to ram his fist through the surface just to watch the words flicker and disappear. For three hours Dustin had scrolled through site after site of history, blogs and travel pages in an effort to locate details on the Gypsy people—Roma people he self-corrected. He hadn’t planned on it, had in fact been so incensed by Paige’s “advice” that his initial intentions had been only to search out the “positive,” print the bastards out and mail them to the racist woman. But plan or not, he couldn’t force hims
