"We have to tell her," Debra said.
"We can't," Alice said. "It has said on the back of her skull for weeks 'Memory Card Full.'"
"But her daughter will miss out on all of the fun," Debra said. "And I've known Dena since elementary school. We used to go trick-or-treating together Halloween is her favorite holiday. When we lived in the City together we'd go party hopping together. Once when there was an early snow storm in Chicago, we huddled together and waited for a cab. It was hilarious. We HAVE to tell her."
"She has to forget something else otherwise we can't tell her about Halloween," Alice said.
"Maybe we can call the school," Debra suggested. "And ask them to take something off her plate. Make her forget about Pear Deck or Break Out Rooms on Zoom or AP Classroom or Google Classroom or Padlet or Screetastify or Powerschool or Bitmojis. Does she really need to know all of her students' names? Perhaps if we take out a few of them, she will be fine."
"Can you imagine how embarrassed she'd be if she went to call on a student and couldn't remember her name?" Alice asked. "Besides, she knows October 31 is Halloween. She will think to ask what's going on."
"But will she, Alice? Will she? Or will she and her daughter miss out on all of the fun, all of the candy, all of the joy?" Debra asked. "I'm going to do it."
"Don't," Alice warned.
"You can't stop me," Debra said determined.
Debra sent the colorful hyperlinked email filled with Bitmojis of kids and parents as witches. Dates of events for the coming week were there with times of all of the great activities.
...
Dena was doing the dishes when the message downloaded on her iphone. She heard the notification, but her husband had seen it first. It was colorful, too colorful, and he knew by instinct that either she had been hacked or that someone was violating the rules: the Memory Card was Full.
He deleted the message and limited incoming messages to family.
