It’s a metaphysical fact of rural American life. Every person you’ve ever known in your entire life is hiding at Walmart, just waiting for you to come in looking your absolute worst and in no mood for socializing.

You can shop at midnight. During an ice storm. On an evening when the long-awaited, final episodes of every TV reality show are airing simultaneously. It won’t matter. Your presence will be detected and your visit will be a nightmarish hoedown of neighbor-clucking chatter.

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