Three weeks into being Robert and Sarah Bennett, I was at the Whitefish Community Center, hunched over one of those metal folding tables that make your elbows sore if you sit too long. Across from me, Margie Thompson spread out a bunch of old flyers like she was showing me a bad hand of cards.
“Look at these,” she groaned. The paper was thin and faded, the fonts straight out of 1985. “We’re supposed to be raising money with this auction, but these make it look like a garage sale at the church basement. Who’s going to bother showing up?”
I leaned closer, already thinking through options. “Alright, so what’s the budget to redo them?”
Margie gave me a wince that said everything. “That’s the thing. We don’t have one. Every cent goes into the winter meal program. If we spend on design, that’
