The 2025 legislative session had been a bloodbath.

Rachel had driven to Topeka twice this winter to attend hearings at the state capitol. She had sat shoulder to shoulder with other teachers, parents, and concerned residents, listening to lawmakers debate whether public schools should even continue receiving full accreditation if they failed to meet new, impossibly high performance standards.

They all knew what that meant.

The standards had been set intentionally high so schools in lower-income or high-need areas—already struggling with teacher shortages—would fail. And when they failed? They’d be forced to restructure, subject to state-mandated “corrective action plans” that often led to more privatization, more pressure on teachers, and—eventually—closures.

SB 48 passed by an overwhelming margin, despite the protests.

Rachel had watched, stomach in knots, as the final vote was tallied. She had watched as the Republican lawmakers smiled and shook hands. The moment they had been waiting for—the slow starvation of public schools—was now fully underway.

She had driven home in silence that night, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

David had been waiting up for her when she got home. He had listened patiently as she vented, but she could tell he was still trying to play the role of the moderate—trying to convince himself that this was just another political cycle, not something existential.

“This isn’t just politics, David,” she had told him. “They’re breaking the system. On purpose.”

By late November, the first wave of teacher resignations had begun.

It started quietly. A fifth-grade teacher at Noah’s school left mid-semester, citing “family reasons.” A high school science teacher at Ethan’s school announced she wouldn’t be coming back after winter break. Then came the special education professionals—the ones who worked long hours for little pay and even less recognition.

Rachel had coffee with one of them, an old colleague named Dana, who had worked in special education for over a decade.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Dana admitted, stirring her coffee absently. “They’ve underpaid us for years. We don’t have enough aides. And now? Now they’re telling us that if we don’t ‘show improvement’ fast enough, the state could take over the district.”

Rachel frowned. “Where will you go?”

Dana sighed. “Missouri. It’s not great there either, but at least they’re not pulling the rug out from under us every year.”

Rachel felt a lump in her throat.

“I just—” Dana hesitated. “I don’t understand how they think this is sustainable.”

Rachel already knew the answer. It wasn’t.

It wasn’t supposed to be.

SB 4 had already passed, making sure that all advance ballots had to be received by 7 p.m. on Election Day—eliminating the previous three-day grace period. That had been bad enough.

But now, the legislature had moved on to SB 5, which barred election offices from accepting any outside funding or assistance from federal agencies or organizations to run voter registration drives, outreach programs, or even to administer elections.

Rachel knew exactly what that meant.

It meant that voter registration efforts—especially those targeting lower-income, younger, and more Democratic-leaning populations—would be severely hindered.

It meant that election offices would be left underfunded, struggling to keep up with demand.

It meant longer lines at polling places in Democratic areas while wealthy Republican suburbs got the resources they needed.

“They’re rigging it in broad daylight,” Ethan said one night, after overhearing Rachel talking about it.

Rachel gave a small, sad laugh. “They don’t even have to hide it.”

David leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “I still think Democrats can win if they run the right candidates.”

Rachel turned to him. “Do you?”

David hesitated. Because the truth was, deep down, even he wasn’t sure anymore.

The final nail in the coffin came with HB 2054, a bill that doubled the maximum amount individuals could contribute to political campaigns.

David, a financial planner, understood the implications better than most.

“This bill isn’t for regular people,” he told Rachel after reading through it. “It’s for the big-money donors. The people who already max out their contributions.”

Rachel frowned. “So what does that mean in practice?”

David exhaled. “It means that Republican donors—who tend to be wealthier, who tend to contribute the max amount every cycle—just doubled their advantage. Meanwhile, Democratic candidates, who rely more on small-dollar donations, don’t get the same boost.”

Rachel sank onto the couch. “So they’re locking it in. The supermajority.”

David nodded grimly. “Yeah.”

Rachel rubbed her temples.

There had always been an imbalance in political fundraising, but this? This would make it permanent.

On the last Friday of the legislative session, Rachel sat in her car outside the grocery store, staring at her phone.

A notification popped up:

BREAKING: Kansas Legislature passes HB 2054, SB 5, and SB 48.

She let out a slow breath.

She had known it was coming. She had known, the moment these bills were introduced, that they would pass. But knowing didn’t make it any easier.

Her phone buzzed again. A message from her friend Jessica.

Are we even going to recognize this place in five years?

Rachel stared at the words, then at the grocery store in front of her.

People were going in and out, carrying on with their lives, oblivious to what had just happened in Topeka. That was the part that scared her the most. Not the laws. Not the policies. But the fact that most people didn’t seem to notice.

Or worse—didn’t seem to care.

She texted Jessica back.

I don’t know.

Then she put her phone away, got out of the car, and walked into the store. Life had to go on. At least, for now.