“Pick a word,” she told them. “Something silly. Something no one would say by accident. Teach it to your children. Teach it to your parents. And if you ever hear it, you stop what you’re doing, and you listen.”
She told them how to set a duress phrase with their banks, too.
Hank showed the older folks how to spot a call that was too friendly, and an email that was too urgent, and a relative who asks too nicely for a password.
By the third Sunday, there were thirty-four.
By February, there were sixty, and we’d had to move to the gym.
Wyatt appointed himself the official greeter.
He wore a clip-on tie and handed out little index cards, one to every person at the door.
Each one said, in his big uneven printing:
IF YOU CAN’T SAY IT, SAY PEACH COBBLER.
“What does it mean?” a little girl once asked him, tugging on his sleeve.
