There's a knock on your door. A peek through the window reveals two young soldiers in urban camo fatigues gripping M16 rifles slung across their chests. In front of them, an official-looking doctor person sports an N95 mask and carries a clipboard thick with ruffled papers.
Knock knock. "Is anyone home?"
One of the soldiers catches a glimpse of you peering through a sliver of curtain covering the living room window. "I've got movement." He tightens his grip on his rifle and elbows the soldier next to him. "Someone's home. Knock again."
Knock KNOCK. "We're here from the pandemic response team," insists the doc. "We're here to help. Open up or we'll be forced to come in."
Reluctantly, you inch towards the door and grip the doorknob with damp, sweaty hands. Your pulse pounds hard as you crack open the door.
But the doctor isn't in front of your door anymore. It's one of the soldiers -- the larger one -- and he wedges his foot between your door and its frame, prying it open and forcing his intimidating self into your doorway. "We're with FEMA. Please step away from the door."
"Our records show you haven't received the swine flu vaccine yet," squeaks the doctor from behind the bulk of the domineering soldier now squarely positioned in front of you. "We're here to administer your vaccine."
"I don't want a vaccine," you protest. "They're not safe."
The soldier chuckles, blurts out, "They're as safe as the U.S. government says they are."
The doctor peers out from behind his military companion and makes eye contact. "Sir, as you well know, vaccines have been required for all U.S. residents since President Obama's emergency pandemic declaration last month. Please extend your arm and we'll be on our way."
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