Kim Laney considered herself an indispensable part of the American economy. She knew this because the laminated plaque above her desk at Oregon-Atlantic Freight & Shipping read “Team Member of the Month – August 2016”, and in Kim’s mind, that kind of honor didn’t just happen to anyone. The plaque was dusty and the paper insert had curled at the corners, but she refused to take it down. It was proof, both to herself and to the younger women in the office, that hard work and unwavering loyalty could still be rewarded in this country – never mind that “hard work” meant entering tracking numbers into a system that could’ve easily done it automatically since 2010.

Kim sat in her well-worn rolling chair, the kind with a suspicious squeak and a chunk of foam missing from the armrest, and stared at the spreadsheet glowing on her screen. She didn’t exactly understand what the spreadsheet did, but she knew how to copy numbers from Column A to Column D, which was basically the whole point of her job. The system could be improved, sure, but Kim didn’t trust change. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” she liked to say, despite the fact that it was, in fact, very broken and required three different logins just to print a bill of lading.

The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead mixed with the faint smell of burnt coffee from the breakroom, where someone had, once again, left the pot on since dawn. Kim didn’t drink the office coffee. She had her own insulated tumbler, emblazoned with an American flag and the words “These Colors Don’t Run”, filled every morning with piping-hot Folgers and three heaping tablespoons of Coffee-mate French Vanilla powder. She sipped it now, scanning her inbox for signs of urgent, high-level correspondence.

There was one new email from corporate headquarters, but it was just a reminder about the upcoming “Employee Wellness Initiative.” Kim had already decided she’d skip it. In her opinion, wellness was a scam invented by the socialists to make fat people feel bad. She was perfectly healthy – her blood pressure medicine was working fine, thank you – and she didn’t need some twenty-something “health coach” lecturing her about steps per day.

Her desk was the most decorated in the office. On one side sat a pink Himalayan salt lamp she never plugged in because “electricity ruins the natural healing energy.” Next to it was a small stack of framed quotes in swirly fonts: Faith Over Fear, Don’t Worry, Pray About It, and her personal favorite, If You Don’t Stand for the Flag, Don’t Bother Standing at All. A tiny crocheted angel, made by her cousin in Branson, Missouri, kept watch over her stapler.

Kim’s phone buzzed with a text from her friend, Sherry:

Did you hear they want to add an animal shelter by the middle school???

Kim narrowed her eyes. This was exactly the kind of slippery slope she’d been warning people about. First, they’d put dogs near children, then next thing you know, they’d be teaching the kids about “animal feelings” in science class instead of the Lord’s creation. She tapped out a reply with alarming speed for someone who claimed to hate technology:

That’s disgusting. I’ll make some calls.

She didn’t need to clarify who she’d call. Everyone in Kim’s circle knew she had the direct line to Junction City Code Enforcement, a number she had memorized the way other people knew their grandkids’ birthdays.

She settled back into her chair, satisfied that she had already done more for the moral health of her community before 10 a.m. than most people did all week. Somewhere down the hall, she heard Brenda from HR laughing, and Kim frowned. She didn’t trust people who laughed at work; it usually meant they weren’t working hard enough.

Kim returned to her spreadsheet, copying and pasting like a patriot defending her post. She imagined herself as a kind of civilian soldier. Her battlefield was the beige-carpeted office floor, her weapon the wireless mouse, her enemies anyone who thought America should change in any meaningful way.

Outside the office window, a pair of sparrows hopped along the ledge. Kim glared at them.

She hated birds.

By 5:03 p.m., Kim was parked in her driveway, the engine of her 2006 Ford Explorer idling while she finished listening to her favorite AM radio host rant about how public libraries had “gone woke.” She nodded along, chewing a piece of cinnamon gum with the intensity of someone rehearsing an argument. Her neighbor’s kids, two scrawny boys with skateboards, zipped past on the sidewalk. One of them waved. Kim didn’t wave back. She’d once overheard them calling her “the binocular lady,” and she wasn’t about to encourage bad manners.

Her house sat on a quiet street in a neighborhood where the yards were still big enough to mow without a riding tractor but small enough that you could spot a code violation from your kitchen window. Kim had made it her mission to ensure that standards were maintained. She believed homeowners’ associations were “communist nonsense,” but she also believed in order, which for Kim meant everyone following her own personal rulebook.

As soon as she stepped inside, she went straight to the front window and parted the blinds with two fingers. The first thing she noticed was that the Johnsons’ trash can was still at the curb, even though pickup had been yesterday morning. Strike one. Then she spotted a little brown dog – a mutt, obviously – trotting loose near the corner. Strike two. Kim had no idea who owned the animal, but in her mind, that only made the crime worse.

She reached for her phone.

“Code Enforcement,” she said into the receiver before the person on the other end could speak. “This is Kim. There’s a dog at large, possibly rabid, and the Johnsons are in violation of Section 4.12.2 of the municipal code. Trash receptacles must be removed from curbside within twenty-four hours. I’ve documented both.”

“Uh-huh,” the tired voice on the line replied.

Kim continued. “And I want it on record that the Hendersons have a flagpole in their front yard flying the rainbow flag with the American flag. I don’t think that’s technically illegal, but it should be.”

After hanging up, she allowed herself a small smile. She wasn’t being petty; she was protecting property values. People thanked her for this sort of vigilance. Well, not out loud, but they thought it, she was certain.

Dinner was a microwaved Salisbury steak, eaten while scrolling through the Junction City Neighborhood Watch Facebook page. It was her battlefield after hours. There was already a post about the loose brown dog (“Friendly! Please PM if yours!”), to which Kim commented, This is how children get mauled. Keep your animals locked up. She ignored the six laughing-face emoji reactions.

After eating, she made her evening rounds. What she called her “walk,” though it was really a slow plod from her driveway to the end of the street and back, clipboard in hand. On tonight’s list: confirm whether the Browns had trimmed their hedge since her last report and check if anyone had put up new “political signage” without the required permit.

Halfway down the block, she paused. The Richardson girl was chalking the sidewalk with a giant picture of a cartoon cat wearing sunglasses. Kim bent down, hands on knees, and delivered her verdict.

“You know that stuff doesn’t wash off right away? You’re defacing city property.”

“It’s my sidewalk,” the girl said without looking up.

Kim turned red and pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. “Sidewalks are public property. That means they belong to everyone. You wouldn’t want someone drawing something offensive out here, would you?”

The girl shrugged and kept coloring. Kim made a note on her clipboard to “Petition City Hall about chalking ordinance.”

Back home, she put the kettle on for her nightly cup of decaf tea. Through the kitchen window, she spotted the brown mutt again – this time squatting in the vacant lot across the street. Kim’s eyes narrowed to slits. This was exactly what was wrong with society: animals acting like they owned the place, kids thinking rules were optional, and no one else caring enough to make a phone call.

But Kim cared.

Kim always cared.

Kim liked to tell people she had been “raised right,” which was her way of saying she grew up in a house where dinner was served at 5:30 sharp and feelings were something you prayed about, not talked about. She was born in 1979, which she often described as “a time when people still respected the flag.”

As a child, Kim wasn’t what you’d call “popular,” but she wasn’t exactly bullied either. She just seemed to repel both friendship and pity through a combination of smug certainty and an allergy to fun. In fourth grade, her teacher suggested she join the school choir to “build confidence,” but Kim refused. Singing was for libtards, and besides, she didn’t like the idea of her voice being mixed in with everyone else’s. She preferred solo projects, like correcting other children’s spelling or reporting contraband snacks to the lunch monitor.

Her hatred of animals began early. When she was seven, her cousin’s cat scratched her after she tried to put it in a doll dress. It wasn’t a serious injury – barely broke the skin – but Kim told anyone who would listen that she’d “narrowly survived being clawed to death.” From then on, she viewed pets as ticking time bombs. Dogs were slobbering menaces, cats were silent assassins, and anything smaller than a rabbit was a “pest,” even if it was technically a hamster.

In high school, Kim found her first real community in the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, despite not being athletic and never attending a meeting without bringing an enormous three-ring binder full of handwritten “discussion questions.” Her crowning moment came senior year, when she single-handedly petitioned the school board to replace the science department’s evolution posters with a series of framed Bible verses. The motion failed 6–1, but the lone “yes” vote, cast by a school board member who later admitted he thought the resolution was about earthquake safety, was enough for Kim to count it as a victory.

Kim didn’t go to college. She didn’t need to. She got a job at the shipping company and settled into her first cubicle like it was a throne. She worked hard, kept her head down, and never once asked for a raise, preferring instead to complain about “kids these days” and their “entitlement.” When she finally bought her own house, she treated it like a fortress. In her mind, the mortgage wasn’t just a financial obligation, it was a moral high ground from which to look down on renters, the unemployed, and anyone who didn’t edge their lawn twice a month.

Over the years, Kim’s political beliefs hardened into a kind of personal religion. She subscribed to mailing lists that promised to “Take America Back,” ordered bumper stickers in bulk, and attended exactly one Tea Party rally in 2010, where she clapped so hard she gave herself a bruise on her palm.

By the time she was in her late forties, Kim had perfected her life into a comfortable loop: work, police the neighborhood, fight invisible cultural battles online, sleep, repeat. She didn’t travel – too many foreigners, not enough drive-thrus – and she didn’t date, explaining that “the right man” simply hadn’t come along, despite having narrowed the qualifications to “must own American-made truck” and “agree with her on everything.”

Still, Kim thought of herself as happy. Not the bubbly, giddy kind of happy you saw in TV commercials, but the smug, fortified contentment of someone convinced they were winning a war only they knew existed.

And if the rest of the world thought she was bitter, or lonely, or ridiculous…well, that was their problem.

***

It was a Wednesday night, which meant Junction City’s monthly town hall meeting, a civic event that, in Kim’s eyes, ranked somewhere between church and jury duty in terms of moral importance. She had attended every meeting for the past nine years, sitting in the same third-row seat with a spiral notebook balanced on her lap. The notebook was half full of legitimate agenda notes and half full of personal grievances written in capital letters.

Tonight’s meeting promised fireworks. Word had spread that the school board was considering adding a “comprehensive health class” to the curriculum, which, in Kim’s mind, meant two things: birth control propaganda and something she referred to as “gender confusion lessons.”

She arrived early, as usual, and planted herself in her seat with the air of a woman about to deliver the Gettysburg Address. The other attendees trickled in, most of them retirees in windbreakers, a few younger parents in yoga pants, and, to Kim’s great irritation, a man wearing a shirt that said Science Is Real. She made a mental note to ‘pray’ for him.

The meeting opened with the pledge of allegiance, which Kim recited louder than anyone else, her voice cutting through the room like a chainsaw. Then came public comment. She didn’t bother raising her hand, Kim knew the chairman would call on her whether he wanted to or not.

“Kim D. Laney, North Ash Street,” she announced, standing and gripping the podium with both hands. “I’m here tonight as a concerned taxpayer, a patriot, and someone who believes we should be teaching children morality, not immorality.”

She glanced around the room, locking eyes with the school board chair, a woman in her thirties whose crime, in Kim’s mind, was existing while young.

“I hear there’s talk of teaching so-called comprehensive health, which is just a code word for giving kids condoms and telling them to be whatever they want. Well, I think it’s high time we get back to the basics: prayer, abstinence, and the Lord’s creation. These children don’t need to learn about ‘science-based reproduction.’ They need to learn about Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.”

A smattering of groans came from the back, but Kim pressed on, convinced it was only the devil trying to distract her.

“And another thing,” she continued, flipping a page in her notebook, “I hear they’re planning to build an animal shelter near the middle school. Do we really want dangerous, disease-carrying animals so close to our children? What if one escapes during recess? What if a kid comes home smelling like dog and their parents don’t notice until it’s too late? We should be talking about building more churches, not kennels.”

By the time she finished, her cheeks were flushed and her hair slightly frizzed from the effort. She sat down to a polite but tepid round of applause from three people, two of whom she was related to.

The meeting moved on to other business: zoning changes, pothole repairs, something about the water rates. Kim listened just long enough to find fault with each speaker before checking her phone. On the Junction City Facebook page, someone had already posted a blurry photo of her at the podium with the caption: North Ash Street strikes again.

Kim saw the string of sarcastic comments forming beneath it, but she didn’t care. To her, every eye-roll was proof she was over the target. Every laugh was just jealousy from people who didn’t have the backbone to stand up for what was right.

When the meeting adjourned, she walked out with her head high. In her mind, she’d planted the seeds of change. And maybe she had, but they weren’t the kind that would grow the way she thought.

Two weeks later, Kim got the call she’d been waiting for. It came just after lunch, while she was at her desk eating a tuna sandwich with the crusts cut off (she’d read somewhere that crusts had “extra gluten”). The voice on the other end introduced himself as a representative from the city planning department.

“Ms. Laney, I’m calling to let you know that your concerns about the proposed animal shelter have been heard,” he said in the measured tone of someone reading directly from a script. “The location has been moved.”

Kim grinned. “Well, I’m glad somebody in this town still has some sense.”

“They’ll be building it behind the public library instead,” the voice continued. “Farther from the middle school.”

“That’s wonderful news,” Kim said, picturing herself as a lone sentry, guarding the children of Junction City from canine chaos. “It just goes to show what one person can accomplish when they speak up.”

She didn’t notice the slight pause before the man added, “Yes, ma’am. We’ll be sure to include your name in the meeting minutes.”

That night, she celebrated with a microwaved peach cobbler and an extra tablespoon of Coffee-mate in her tea. She posted a triumphant status on Facebook: The animal shelter is MOVED. The Lord answers prayers and so do city planners. God bless Junction City.

The post got six likes, three from people she hadn’t spoken to in years, two from out-of-town relatives, and one from Sherry, who probably hadn’t read past the first sentence. The comment section was more lively.

Tom P.: Didn’t know the library was so dangerous. Guess I’ll bring a muzzle when I check out books.

Megan J.: LOL. Real game changer, Kim.

Chris S.: Behind the library? That’s even closer to city hall. 😂

She ignored them all. Let the trolls laugh. They didn’t understand that she’d just saved the youth of this town from years of potential rabies scares.

The next Saturday, she drove past the library to see the new site for herself. She’d expected a vacant lot, maybe a construction fence. Instead, she found a big handmade sign staked into the grass:

COMING SOON: Junction City Animal Shelter
 Proudly Sponsored by the Friends of the Public Library

Beneath the main text, in smaller print, was a line that read: Special thanks to community advocate Kim Laney for making this possible.

Kim beamed. She didn’t realize the “special thanks” was a joke. An in-joke the planning department had slipped in after the public meeting, knowing exactly who would read it and believe it was sincere.

In her mind, the sign was proof she had influence. Proof she mattered. Proof she was, as she liked to tell herself before bed, “a good citizen.”

Somewhere down the street, the brown mutt she’d been reporting for weeks trotted past, tail wagging, happily free. Kim didn’t see it. She was too busy imagining her next big victory.