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From: BlueCross Ins Notifications <bluecrossins49@hartleyvending.com>
Reply-To: bluecrossins49@hartleyvending.com
Subject: An update from BlueCross on your 2026 Coverage
To: bruce@untroubled.org
Date: Sun, 18 Jan 2026 21:36:00 -0500
Message-ID: <Gs5WYUHC_p0ba@hartleyvending.com>
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The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting long stripes across the wooden floor. I sat with my coffee, the steam rising in gentle curls. Outside, a bird was singing a repetitive, cheerful tune from the branch of the old oak tree. It reminded me of summers spent at my grandparents' house, where the days seemed to stretch on forever. The smell of cut grass would drift in from the fields, mixed with the scent of baking bread from the kitchen. My grandmother would hum while she worked, a soft, off-key melody that was the soundtrack to those afternoons. We'd play cards at the kitchen table, the worn deck smooth in our hands. The conversation was never about anything important, just the small talk that fills comfortable silences. She'd ask about school, about friends, about the book I was reading. I'd ask about the flowers in her garden, about the names of the birds at the feeder. There was a rhythm to it, a predictability that felt like safety. Later, we might take a walk down the lane, kicking up dust with our shoes. She'd point out the different types of clouds, explaining which ones meant rain was coming. I never really remembered the cloud names, but I remembered the sound of her voice, patient and clear. Those walks always ended back at the porch, with glasses of lemonade that tasted tart and sweet. The ice cubes would clink, a tiny percussion to the end of the day. Now, years later, the memory is as vivid as the photograph I keep on the shelf. It's not the big events that shape us, but these quiet, ordinary moments. The way the light falls, the taste of a drink, the sound of a familiar voice telling you something simple about the world. These are the fragments we carry, the pieces that, when put together, form the map of where we've been. They don't need to be dramatic to be significant. Sometimes, the most profound things are the ones that happen without anyone noticing, in the space between one breath and the next, in the quiet of a sunny morning with a cup of coffee and a distant birdsong.
BlueCrossBlueShield
Your Medicare Kit Is Ready
A selection of helpful supplies is available to you through this program. This kit is provided at no charge to households in your area. One kit is available per household, based on a program allocation of 800 kits. This availability concludes tomorrow.
Access Your BCBS Kit Details
Along with the kit, you can review information about plan coverage available for 2026. This is an optional step for your consideration.
You will not be billed for the kit. It is covered by the program for this allocation.
What Your Kit Contains
Digital Thermometer
First Aid Bandages
Blood Pressure Cuff
Hand Sanitizer
Pill Organizer Case
Medical Information Folder
Compression Socks
Magnifying Glass for Labels
The quantity of kits is determined by the program's current allocation.
Thank you for being part of our community. We are here to support your health journey.
He leaned back in the chair, the leather creaking under his weight. The library was quiet, the kind of deep silence only found in places filled with books. Dust motes danced in the slants of sunlight coming through the high windows. He had come looking for a specific volume, a history of local bridges, but had gotten distracted by the atlas on a nearby stand. The pages were thick and smelled of age. He traced a route along a coastline with his finger, imagining the voyages taken centuries before. The door at the far end of the room opened and closed with a soft thud. Another patron, an older woman with a canvas bag, moved slowly along the shelves, her fingers brushing the spines. She pulled out a thick novel, examined the cover, and slipped it into her bag. He watched her for a moment, wondering about the story she had chosen. Was it an adventure, a romance, a mystery set in a country she would never visit The beauty of a library, he thought, was this unspoken sharing of inner lives. Everyone here was on a different journey, guided by curiosity or need, all in this shared, hushed space. He finally found the book on bridges, its blue cover faded. As he pulled it from the shelf, a small, handwritten note fluttered to the floor. He picked it up. It was a grocery list, in a looping, elegant script: bread, eggs, tea, almonds. A mundane message from another time, left accidentally as a bookmark. He smiled and placed it back between the pages, a secret connection to a stranger's ordinary day. He checked out the book, the librarian stamping the date with a practiced flick of the wrist. Stepping outside, the sunlight was bright, the noise of the street a sudden contrast to the quiet. He carried the book under his arm, along with the quiet thought that stories aren't just in the pages we read, but in the quiet moments between them, in the traces people leave behind, in a library's peaceful air and a forgotten grocery list that once meant someone was planning their meals.

http://www.hartleyvending.com/ebatesuhasi

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<div style="display:none;font-size:1px;color:#ffffff;line-height:1px;font-family:Georgia;max-height:0px;max-width:0px;opacity:0;overflow:hidden;mso-hide:all;">
The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting long stripes across the wooden floor. I sat with my coffee, the steam rising in gentle curls. Outside, a bird was singing a repetitive, cheerful tune from the branch of the old oak tree. It reminded me of summers spent at my grandparents' house, where the days seemed to stretch on forever. The smell of cut grass would drift in from the fields, mixed with the scent of baking bread from the kitchen. My grandmother would hum while she worked, a soft, off-key melody that was the soundtrack to those afternoons. We'd play cards at the kitchen table, the worn deck smooth in our hands. The conversation was never about anything important, just the small talk that fills comfortable silences. She'd ask about school, about friends, about the book I was reading. I'd ask about the flowers in her garden, about the names of the birds at the feeder. There was a rhythm to it, a predictability that felt like safety. Later, we might take a walk down the lane, kicking up dust with our shoes. She'd point out the different types of clouds, explaining which ones meant rain was coming. I never really remembered the cloud names, but I remembered the sound of her voice, patient and clear. Those walks always ended back at the porch, with glasses of lemonade that tasted tart and sweet. The ice cubes would clink, a tiny percussion to the end of the day. Now, years later, the memory is as vivid as the photograph I keep on the shelf. It's not the big events that shape us, but these quiet, ordinary moments. The way the light falls, the taste of a drink, the sound of a familiar voice telling you something simple about the world. These are the fragments we carry, the pieces that, when put together, form the map of where we've been. They don't need to be dramatic to be significant. Sometimes, the most profound things are the ones that happen without anyone noticing, in the space between one breath and the next, in the quiet of a sunny morning with a cup of coffee and a distant birdsong.
</div>
<center>
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%" style="max-width:600px;margin:0 auto;">
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<td style="padding:10px 20px 30px;background-color:#ffffff;border-radius:12px 12px 0 0;border-bottom:3px solid #00A9DF;">
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%">
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<td style="text-align:center;padding-bottom:10px;">
<h1 style="margin:0;font-size:32px;font-weight:700;color:#007AAE;letter-spacing:-0.5px;">BlueCross<br><span style="color:#00A9DF;">BlueShield</span></h1>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding:30px 20px;background-color:#ffffff;">
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%">
<tr>
<td style="padding-bottom:25px;text-align:center;">
<div style="width:60px;height:4px;background-color:#6FBEDC;margin:0 auto 20px;border-radius:2px;"></div>
<h2 style="margin:0 0 12px 0;font-size:26px;color:#1A1A1A;font-weight:600;">Your Medicare Kit Is Ready</h2>
<p style="margin:0;font-size:17px;color:#5a5a5a;max-width:520px;margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;">A selection of helpful supplies is available to you through this program. This kit is provided at no charge to households in your area. One kit is available per household, based on a program allocation of 800 kits. This availability concludes tomorrow.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding:25px 0;text-align:center;">
<a href="http://www.hartleyvending.com/ebatesuhasi" style="background-color:#00A9DF;color:#ffffff;text-decoration:none;font-weight:bold;padding:16px 40px;border-radius:8px;display:inline-block;font-size:18px;box-shadow:0 3px 8px rgba(0,122,174,0.2);">Access Your BCBS Kit Details</a>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding-bottom:30px;">
<p style="margin:0 0 20px 0;font-size:16px;color:#3A3A3A;">Along with the kit, you can review information about plan coverage available for 2026. This is an optional step for your consideration.</p>
<p style="margin:0;font-size:16px;color:#3A3A3A;">You will not be billed for the kit. It is covered by the program for this allocation.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>
<h3 style="margin:0 0 20px 0;font-size:22px;color:#1A1A1A;font-weight:600;padding-bottom:10px;border-bottom:1px solid #C7E3EA;">What Your Kit Contains</h3>
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%">
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<td width="50%" valign="top" style="padding:12px 15px 12px 0;border-bottom:1px solid #E6F3F7;">
<ul style="margin:0;padding-left:20px;color:#5a5a5a;">
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">Digital Thermometer</li>
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">First Aid Bandages</li>
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">Blood Pressure Cuff</li>
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">Hand Sanitizer</li>
</ul>
</td>
<td width="50%" valign="top" style="padding:12px 0 12px 15px;border-bottom:1px solid #E6F3F7;">
<ul style="margin:0;padding-left:20px;color:#5a5a5a;">
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">Pill Organizer Case</li>
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">Medical Information Folder</li>
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">Compression Socks</li>
<li style="margin-bottom:8px;">Magnifying Glass for Labels</li>
</ul>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p style="margin:20px 0 0 0;font-size:14px;color:#787878;font-style:italic;">The quantity of kits is determined by the program's current allocation.</p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
</td>
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<tr>
<td style="padding:25px 20px;background-color:#ffffff;border-radius:0 0 12px 12px;border-top:1px solid #C7E3EA;">
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%">
<tr>
<td style="text-align:center;padding:15px 0;">
<p style="margin:0;font-size:15px;color:#5a5a5a;">Thank you for being part of our community. We are here to support your health journey.</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>
<div style="height:4px;background-color:#007AAE;border-radius:2px;margin-top:20px;"></div>
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</center>
<div style="font-size:8px;line-height:10px;color:#E6F3F7;font-family:Arial;margin-top:30px;max-width:600px;margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;">
He leaned back in the chair, the leather creaking under his weight. The library was quiet, the kind of deep silence only found in places filled with books. Dust motes danced in the slants of sunlight coming through the high windows. He had come looking for a specific volume, a history of local bridges, but had gotten distracted by the atlas on a nearby stand. The pages were thick and smelled of age. He traced a route along a coastline with his finger, imagining the voyages taken centuries before. The door at the far end of the room opened and closed with a soft thud. Another patron, an older woman with a canvas bag, moved slowly along the shelves, her fingers brushing the spines. She pulled out a thick novel, examined the cover, and slipped it into her bag. He watched her for a moment, wondering about the story she had chosen. Was it an adventure, a romance, a mystery set in a country she would never visit The beauty of a library, he thought, was this unspoken sharing of inner lives. Everyone here was on a different journey, guided by curiosity or need, all in this shared, hushed space. He finally found the book on bridges, its blue cover faded. As he pulled it from the shelf, a small, handwritten note fluttered to the floor. He picked it up. It was a grocery list, in a looping, elegant script: bread, eggs, tea, almonds. A mundane message from another time, left accidentally as a bookmark. He smiled and placed it back between the pages, a secret connection to a stranger's ordinary day. He checked out the book, the librarian stamping the date with a practiced flick of the wrist. Stepping outside, the sunlight was bright, the noise of the street a sudden contrast to the quiet. He carried the book under his arm, along with the quiet thought that stories aren't just in the pages we read, but in the quiet moments between them, in the traces people leave behind, in a library's peaceful air and a forgotten grocery list that once meant someone was planning their meals.
</div>
<img src="http://www.hartleyvending.com/open/YnJ1Y2VAdW50cm91YmxlZC5vcmc.png" width="1" height="1" style="display:none" alt="">
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