Mary called her mother. “Ma-aa! It’s Mary.”

“Hi, Honey,” replied her mother’s frail voice.

“Ma-ah, I’m getting fired tomorrow because I can’t sell any papers.”

“But, you sold some before.”

“Yay-ah,” she said in a twisted voice. “But I can’t now!” She cried. “I’m getting so sick. It’s all my fault.” Mary sobbed into the phone. Her eyes were puffy and her chin flesh quivered. “It’s all these deadlines! Nothing but deadlines!” she sobbed into the phone.

Her mother waited out these terrible spots of grief and hopelessness. It was like Mary suffered from a never-ending fatal sickness. “What exactly did Mr. McCracken say?”

“Agh....” Mary stuttered in tears, pouting and pursing her lips. “I gotta sell 15 papers by noon. Or I’m dead!”

“What will happen if you don’t?”

Mary became hysterical. “I just said, I’m dea-a-haaid!”