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Picture grey November light leaking through your bedroom window; the last bits of a morning dream evaporating amid the gnawing buzz of your iPhone alarm. The sun has risen on Election Day 2026 and you’re waking an hour earlier than usual. A recent Supreme Court decision invalidated the mail-in ballot you submitted weeks ago. You now have to vote in person and you want to get it done before work.
You pass the unemployment office on your drive into town. A line of shivering claimants stretches down the block. Many of them are wearing face coverings to protect from the recent spike in COVID cases, but the masks can’t hide the exhaustion in their eyes. Every day, the line gets longer, but the White House’s Bureau of Labor Statistics, now under the purview of a Heritage Foundation economist, insists joblessness is at a historic 2% low.
Traffic on Cordelia Street grinds to a halt. ICE agents have blocked off the intersection ahead and are checking the IDs of every motorist. You hear shouting and poke your head out the window to inspect the ruckus. A man is being dragged from a Ford Taurus, his frightened children wailing in the backseat with tears streaming down their cherub cheeks. “I’m a citizen!” he shouts as he’s forced at gunpoint into the back of an armored van. It drives off with blue lights flashing to God knows where.
There are no canvassers collecting signatures outside your polling place. The Sierra Club, ACLU, Planned Parenthood… they’ve all been driven to the brink of bankruptcy by the so-called “Kirk Laws” that stripped them of their tax-exempt status. Their presence has been replaced by bored-looking National Guardsmen toting black assault rifles. The president deployed troops to ensure “election security.” They offer you tight smiles and courteous nods as you take your place in line. They seem unsure of their role, but they hold their weapons like they’re ready to shoot.
You now need a photo ID and proof of residency to vote. You came prepared with your driver’s license and a utility bill that you just paid off with a near-maxed-out credit card. At least four would-be voters ahead of you didn’t get the memo. They’re being turned away, grumbling and shrugging their shoulders as they return defeatedly to the parking lot. “I can’t come back,” you hear one woman complain. “Guess I’m not voting.”
You’re late for work. A hushed pall hangs over the office. Jen in accounting was just fired for an Instagram post accusing J.D. Vance of having a “punchable face.” Everyone is whispering about how her dismissal may affect the next round of layoffs. Your stomach twists into a queasy knot. Last month, you were reprimanded for reposting the video of Donald Trump and Jeffrey Epstein partying at Mar-a-Lago in 1992. “We’re an apolitical workplace,” your boss sneered.
It’s Taco Tuesday. You stop at Whole Foods on your way home. There’s not a single avocado on the shelf—a consequence of supply chain issues and a lack of farmhands. You grab some tomatoes, lettuce, garlic, tortillas, and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. Your bill comes to $35. You put the ice cream back to ease the strain.
The election results are rolling in when you get home. Within an hour, it’s a fait accompli: Republicans will hold the Senate and expand their majority in the House. Pundits praise the electoral triumph and stop just short of declaring the Democratic Party dead. None of them mention the aggressive gerrymandering campaign that made the victory possible.
Cameras turn toward the new White House ballroom. President Donald Trump is going to make some remarks. He hobbles out on stage to cheers and flashbulbs, sporting a Trump 2028 hat. He announces that he’s seeking a third term and has amassed an army of lawyers to challenge the 22nd Amendment. New Supreme Court Justice Aileen Cannon has already questioned the constitutionality of term limits.
“If that doesn’t work,” Trump says, “Mike will think of something!” The Speaker of the House, responsible for certifying the next election, is sitting in the front row. He gives the president an affirmative thumbs up.
Slackjawed on your couch, the lyrics of a Talking Heads song start to jangle through your brain. “How did I get here?” Every erosion was met with outrage—but there were too many to keep track. It all coalesced into news chatter and white noise, until finally, the country that we knew slipped from our grip like a squandered fortune. |
