Deidre cursed herself for not having a working pen. It was standard procedure: ring the doorbell, get a signature, hand over the package.
But now she had to wait while the old lady went rummaging through her giant house looking for a replacement.
That’s when she noticed a group of boys had gathered. About a dozen. All young, all short, all wearing matching outfits.
She saw their lips move.
“Get help!” they mouthed in unison.
They weren’t speaking. Why?
They had no tongues. Severed at the base. That’s why.
Deidre sprinted back to her truck.
No signature was worth this.
The Weekday One Hundred 