Sally Richards #5

The real American way.

The whiskey bottle sat on the coffee table, glinting in the low light. Beside it, the small plastic bottle of sleeping pills.

Sally Richards sat in the dark, listening to the voices outside.

They had come again.

Like clockwork, at dusk, they arrived.

It had started with just a few. Then dozens. Now?

She peeked through the curtain.

There had to be fifty of them.

Holding tiki torches, waving signs, chanting.

They sang.

They always sang.

God Bless America.

Land that I love.

They weren’t yelling. They weren’t screaming.

They were calm. Controlled.

Mocking.

The sound of their voices twisted something inside her.

She backed away from the window, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth.

The whiskey called to her.

The pills whispered.

Just one.

Maybe two.

Or maybe both.

She closed her eyes.

And then—

Silence.

Her breath caught.

She turned back to the window.

They were leaving.

Just like that.

All of them, walking away.

All but one.

He stood alone on the sidewalk.

Big. Tall. Six-foot-four, broad shoulders, a football player’s frame.

He wore overalls and a red hat.

Her pulse quickened.

Slowly, he removed the hat, stuffed it into his pocket.

Then, without hesitation, he walked to her door.

Sally backed away, her chest tightening.

A soft knock.

She froze.

Another knock.

Her voice shook. “What do you want?”

A pause.

“They won’t be back,” he said. His voice was deep, but… not cruel.

“At least not tonight.”

She swallowed. “Why?”

A longer pause. Then, softly—

“Because I told them to leave.”

She clenched her hands into fists. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t expect anything,” he admitted. “I just… I need to talk.”

Sally’s heart pounded against her ribs.

“Please,” he said. “I think I owe you an apology.”

She almost laughed.

An apology?

She hesitated. “Who are you?”

A deep breath. Then:

“My name’s John Adams.”

She stared at the door. “John Adams?”

He let out a hollow chuckle. “Yeah. Named after the second president.”

The corner of her lip twitched. A dry, bitter laugh escaped before she could stop it.

“John Adams,” she murmured. “The man who signed the Treaty of Tripoli. The document that stated—”

“—That the United States is not a Christian nation,” he finished.

Sally exhaled.

Another silence.

“I had a… vision,” he said. “Or maybe it was a dream. I don’t know what to call it.”

Sally gripped the doorframe. “What do you mean?”

He shifted his weight. “I was out there, chanting with them. But then I… wasn’t. I was outside of my body. Watching myself. Watching all of them. About ten feet away.”

Sally’s breath hitched.

“There was… a voice.” His voice wavered. “It asked me, ‘Is this how you show love for your neighbor?’”

Her throat tightened.

“I turned and looked at your house,” John whispered. “And it was on fire.”

A deep, shuddering breath.

“I screamed, ‘No!’” His voice cracked. “And suddenly, I was back in my body, yelling at them to go home.”

Tears burned behind Sally’s eyes.

“I don’t know what happened,” he admitted. “But… I think I was meant to be here. Right now.”

Sally reached for the doorknob.

She hesitated.

Then, slowly, she turned it.

John stood on her porch, looking nothing like she expected.

His face wasn’t cruel.

It was haunted.

“I’d like to talk,” he said.

Sally nodded.

They sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around warm cups of coffee.

John’s hands shook.

“I don’t know why I did it,” he said after a long silence. “I thought I did. I thought it was about standing up for my beliefs. But…” His voice broke. “I don’t even know what I believe anymore.”

Sally took a deep breath.

John looked up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For what I did. For what I let happen. I can’t change it, but… I want to try and fix things. If you’ll let me.”

Sally’s throat tightened.

The weight of everything—the fear, the loneliness, the hatred—crashed over her all at once.

Tears spilled down her cheeks.

She covered her face and sobbed.

John didn’t say anything.

He just let her cry.

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

When she woke, sunlight streamed through the window.

She heard… a lawnmower.

Sally sat up, rubbing her eyes.

She stumbled to the window and froze.

John Adams was in her backyard, pushing a lawnmower.

Three other men were with him, pulling weeds, raking leaves, cleaning.

Her breath caught.

A knock at the door.

She turned, still groggy, and opened it.

A woman stood there, smiling gently.

“Good morning, ma’am,” she said, holding out a basket of muffins. “My name is Rebecca. I go to church with John. I just wanted to introduce myself. We’re your new friends.”

Beyond her, more people were going door to door, talking to neighbors, shaking hands.

Sally clutched the doorframe.

Her neighbors… were opening their doors.

One by one, stepping out, watching the transformation unfold.

Word spread.

Social media erupted.

More people arrived.

Some just to see if it was true.

Others carrying food, supplies, quiet words of comfort.

Then the students came.

Not just one or two. Dozens.

Then hundreds.

And then?

The protests began.

At first, small.

Then larger.

Then unstoppable.

They filled the streets, marching, chanting, demanding the end of the Indoctrination Control Department.

Governor Sara Zander watched it all unfold.

Her empire, her control, crumbling.

She fought it.

She resisted.

Then she caved.

She signed an executive order shutting it down.

She did it behind closed doors, scowling as the cameras flashed.

She never made a speech.

Never acknowledged defeat.

But she had lost.

And Sally Richards had won.

Tears slipped down Sally’s face as she stood on her porch, watching the crowd that had once stood against her now stand for her.

John Adams stood beside her.

“I told you I wanted to fix things,” he said softly.

Sally’s voice broke.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “You did.”

She turned to look at him.

For the first time in months, she wasn’t alone.