A Call to Action
Olivia M. Anderson
At the end of the block, next to the drug
store, the apartment building sat, squat and in
squalor, a blot upon the glittering, ice-blue sky. The
slush-coated sidewalk stretched out before Marga-
ret, finite despite all appearances, and crooked, leaf-
less trees strained perpetually upwards. Her fellow
pedestrians bustled past her, their eyes skipping
over the solitary woman.
Margaret slowed as she approached the
apartment building, and, with a grudging sense of
duty, collected her mail. She rolled her eyes at the
teenage graffiti artist painting on the adjacent wall.
The paint arced from the girl’s cans in streaks of col-
or, so vibrant it hurt. The apartment building must
have been a favorite of hers, for every week it boast-
ed a new image. Either she never got caught or she
didn’t care about the cops.
Margaret had been stupid like that once too.
She entered the lobby of her apartment
building, inhaling the familiar, musty air. Her mood
was not improved when she had to share the el-
evator with a young mother and her son, who was
throwing a tantrum.
Exiting the elevator, Margaret strode down
the hallway and pushed into her shadowy apart-
ment. The daylight that managed to leak through
the windows faintly illuminated the drab, nonde-
script furniture and a few stubborn photographs:
echoes of a previous life. Her coat, boots and bag fell
discarded to the floor, though the mail got the honor
102
of being dumped on the kitchen counter. Habitual-
ly, Margaret cracked open the fridge, her eyes im-
mediately landing on a jar of applesauce. The nasty
goop was probably past its expiration date now, but
she couldn’t be bothered to toss it.
She closed the fridge without retrieving any-
thing, and turned to rest her elbows on the counter,
her eyes staring unseeingly into the wall opposite.
Once these walls had been plastered in pictures and
posters and flags, but Miranda had taken her favor-
ite mementos when she left, and Margaret had never
gotten around to purchasing new ones. She hadn’t
had the energy to interview a new roommate either,
but she’d figured that she could afford rent on her
own after her promotion. In lieu of a human room-
mate, she’d thought that perhaps she’d get a cat.
She never did.
She began mindlessly playing with the en-
velopes on the counter. Among the slim junk mail
was an envelope both short and wide, the size of a
greeting card. Margaret felt her lips pull tight as she
plucked up the envelope and slit it open neatly.
There was only a single sheet of paper in-
side, and it was heavy and slick. Photo paper. Mar-
garet drew the card out and was confronted with her
own face.
The card fluttered to the linoleum, freed by
limp, surprised fingers.
The blood was roaring in her ears, and
shakily, she knelt to retrieve the card. It was Marga-