“My video? Oh, gosh—” the version of herself who’d recorded it, the person she was in that office, felt worlds away. She had almost forgotten she had a job, if she were being honest. “Thank you, I didn’t realize it had been published.”

“I follow the Worker’s Horizon Party on Instagram.”

“What are the chances?”

“It’s cool that you work for them! I’m registered to vote in Massachusetts.”

Alex smiled, going into professional muscle memory: “Please let me know if you’d like me to send along any more information on Sacha Turner, I probably have some literature in my suitcase.”

She laughed, tilting her head in her typically perky way. “Why would you bring that here?”

“Oh,” Alex corrected herself, “I have general party literature that includes a brief on all the major candidates. I don’t go anywhere without it.”

This wasn’t true, but the real answer—that she brought it in case someone was actually interested in her work on this trip—felt mildly embarrassing now that someone was.

“Well, don’t worry, I’m voting for her. I have to vote early, anyway, since I’m here.” She gestured toward the harbor.

Alex smiled, shifting slightly on her feet. In any normal circumstance, this would be a perfect opportunity to follow the voter flow chart always ready in her mind. Melanie knew about the WHP, and followed them on social media. She knew who she was voting for, and had her voting plan in place. This was ideal. The next step would normally be to ask her if she could bring three friends to the polls, or if she’d be interested in volunteering or donating. Normally, Alex was a magician at walking even the most disconnected potential voter through the entire funnel—but their current dynamic made the prospect seem ridiculous. Here she was, on a yacht that cost a quarter million dollars to charter, taking a morning run through one of the most glamorous towns in Europe, speaking to the woman who was paid to wait on her hand and foot about class consciousness.

Alex felt a sharp wave of anxiety begin to rise within her, blurting out her response before she could stop herself: “You know, I’m not rich like them.”

“I’m sorry?”

“On the boat. That whole group. I’m not rich like they are.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean—” Melanie flustered, clearly not expecting any kind of justification. “I didn’t mean to imply anything. I just liked the video.”

Alex could feel the awkwardness mount in real time, so far in the social hole that her only choice was to keep digging.

“I’m just here because Paul is my best friend. I never go on vacations like this.”

“I understand,” Melanie answered, pivoting back to a more formal tone and checking her watch again. “I should probably get going.”

“Okay.”