It started slow. A text here, an email there. Sometimes even the occasional call. How they got her information was a mystery but wasn’t surprising. Organized, resourceful, persistent. They knew what they were doing.
Then things got scary.
A Tuesday. Out of the blue. The doorbell.
She moved cautiously. She was expecting no one. A peak outside revealed two fresh faces in blazers holding clipboards. She gasped.
The doorbell again. She held her breath. Maybe they’d leave. Maybe they’d forget about her. Sure.
“Miss, the election’s next week. Can we count on your support?”
“Miss, we know you’re in there.”
The Weekday One Hundred 