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Wigan Imberline

Wigan had debated sitting on the sidelines during the election. He took a long time to come to the decision, what with work at the factory coming first, and then taking care of his Aunt and Uncle second. They still needed him from time to time, to clean the house and make sure they had their heads on straight. They’d been going to a group to talk about their loss – something that made them seem a little bit more like themselves. He was proud of them, for how far they’d come after two years. He spent an afternoon with the both of them watching the television, and listening to the different candidate talk.

It was something about Mayor Hope that he couldn’t put his finger on – that even though he’d lost his cousin not long ago, he could still put his trust that things were all right, maybe better than when he was a kid. District eight was on a bit of an upswing: no one had been taken out of the factory, no one serious injured, his own family seemed stable. He liked the mayor, and he felt as though he knew the same pain that Wigan had faced. It was what drew him to coming down to the man’s office, to see if he couldn’t volunteer.

He spent a few moments with hands in his pockets, watching the flurry of activity of folks with pamphlets and fancier clothes moving about. Maybe he’d made a mistake, he thought, coming to try and help a man who didn’t really need it. Of course, he’d stay a few more minutes, just in case.