Erin's heart raced as she paced down the sidewalk slowly, stalling for time. This was her first day in volunteering for Senator Callahan's reelection campaign. She had woken up excited, eager to support the candidate she admired and participate in vigorous civic activity. She'd been assigned door-to-door get-out-the-vote work, in this suburban neighborhood the pollsters had assured her was friendly to Callahan.

Maybe so, but in the first hour of this pleasant late summer morning, Erin had visited about twenty houses. Five had brusquely told her they already planned to vote for Callahan. Another five were disinterested in voting in the midterm, and didn't seem swayed by Erin's script about the importance of Callahan's tax and healthcare policies. Another was an immigrant, a noncitizen who shrugged and smiled as she went on her way. But the really hard houses were the hostile ones. Two had slammed the door in her face as soon as they saw the girl with the clipboard; a handful more slammed it when they saw her Callahan-logo shirt, or with a snarl at the first mention of Callahan's name. The last hadn't slammed the door at all; he had let out a vicious "fuck you" and launched into a growling litany of the wrongdoings of Callahan and Callahan's entire party. Every other sentence accused Erin of being a traitor to her country for daring to even consort with them. Erin, brought almost to tears, had murmured an apology as she retreated.

As she walked along and regained her composure, Erin vowed to herself to do better at the next house: to stand up straighter, to boldly confront lies with truth, to proudly represent Callahan and her beliefs. Standing at the end of the driveway, she adjusted her baseball cap, straightened her shirt and buttons, and prepared herself to talk to the next fine citizen. She walked up a long and well-maintained driveway and sidewalk to the front door of a large century home; not quite a mansion, but sized for a well-off and large family. A metal sign in the window read "No Solicitors", but Erin gritted her teeth and rang the doorbell anyway; Callahan's volunteer literature packet had assured her that political canvassing was not solicitation and not illegal. (It neglected to mention whether or not canvassers were often welcome at those homes.)

After fifteen long seconds, the front door opened about halfway. Erin was faced with a man in his early forties, thin, dressed neatly in a button-up shirt and slacks even though it was Saturday. His expression was a scowl, but Erin launched dauntlessly into her spiel. "Good morning, sir. Are you registered to vote?"

"Leave." His voice dripped venom as he glared at Erin, but she continued on as she had rehearsed.

"I'm sorry, sir. Would you mind letting me know which of the following issues you... ah!" As she continued her speech, the man stared for about a second more; then, in a lightning motion, he retrieved a small gun from behind the door and fired it at Erin, giving a glare of contempt all the while. The shock cut off her sentence, but she didn't feel any pain; then she looked down and noticed a small sting. The gun had fired a dart, not a bullet. Adrenaline surging, she pulled the dart out (a small metal syringe, now empty, which she dropped) and began stammering. "Oh god... I'm sorry... I'll go..."

The man gravely shook his head as if in disagreement. Erin turned and tried to back away hastily, but nearly lost her balance and fell; her torso and arms had moved as she intended, but her legs not at all. She caught herself, looked down, and gasped: the tops of her feet were gray and stony, like worn-smooth rock! Her sandals and jeans didn't seem to be affected, but she reached down to feel her calf: sure enough, it was hard and unyielding to her touch. "Turning... me... to stone?" she blurted out in confusion and fear.

The man's expression shifted from the scowl to a smirk. "Yes, I am. I think your statue will keep all the other canvassers away nicely, to say nothing of the missionaries. Hang on, it takes another thirty seconds or so." Erin's breathing was rapid and shallow--whether because she was panicking or her diaphragm was petrifying, she didn't know. "Don't worry--I'll restore you. After the election in seven weeks," he gloated. "I hope you already sent in your mail-in ballot, or Callahan will have to do without your vote." Erin's heart crashed again as she realized the completeness of this defeat. She looked around frantically for any sign of help, but nothing presented itself. Meanwhile the numbness in the muscles in her legs had spread to the rest of her body, and she could see her hands turning to stone too. Her arms locked, and she knew that under her clothes her entire body was stone.

Erin felt a rush of blood to her head as her face began to tingle from the transformation. The man continued to gloat to her. "Don't worry, 'activist girl.' Most people say it's just like waking up from anesthesia. And when the neighborhood kids rip off the clothes off your stone body..." he chuckled to himself, "...well, I'll get you a robe before I turn you back."

He continued to chuckle to himself, but the sound faded out of Erin's hearing, lost in a sea of faint static. Her vision likewise faded to a sea of faint grey through which she could see only the largest shapes and lights. Her skin still felt numb; no longer tingly, but oddly absent. She tried to move even the smallest muscle and found that it was in vain; she was truly and completely transformed into a stone statue. "I wonder if anyone will recognize me as a naked statue..." was her last thought, before her mind drifted off into a sea of lost weeks.