She's a census worker. Great with numbers. Always has been.

A rapid mind that, with ease, can compute.

Johnnie owns two apples. Theresa, in turn, sits upon four.

And so, unexpectedly, one stands there, having gouged their eyes out, robbing them of their Granny Smithian loot, leaving them wailing in agony, nihilistically munching the fruity flesh.

So, to summarise: counting has never been a problem.

She's made a living out of it.

Going door to door and home to home.

It's Monday evening.

Keen to be done for the day.

Eluding reality.

Suffocating herself with whatever show is on.

A piece of toast equipped with pre-sliced cheese deprived of flavour.

A few bites is all it takes.

Monotonously ruminating through the day: a concoction of sights and sounds hoping to quickly inhume it all deep within her where other days such as a Christmas Eve in '94 and that day with that phone call await.

It says that the Coopers are living here, so she rings the doorbell. After she's eavesdropped on a presumably diabetic-prone body coming closer, the door opens, affirming her suspicion.

"Hi, I'm sorry to be bothering you this fine evening. My name's Helen Peters and I work for the Census Bureau. As you might know, we're conducting a census count, and we're going door to door to confirm the number of occupants living in each home."

He feebly nods, compelling her to speak slower as she continues.

"Okay then, Mr Cooper, would you mind stating the number of occupants and their age and gender?"

So he does.

"Me, I'm 43, my wife Jeanne, she's 36, and our kids Josh and Erica."

She takes notes with her pen. It's a good pen with modern features such as an eraser and a tip pointy enough to lodge it far into someone's soft and mushy temple—if the circumstances would call for it.

"Okay, and how old are the kids, Mr Cooper?"

"5 and 12."

"Well then, I'm a happy camper, Mr Cooper, and I'm sorry to have bothered you this evening."

She leaves.

Hearing the front door close behind her as she passes withered bikes.

The next house is close. She's a robot. Repetition is good. Routines are essential, as Dr Willis stated whilst not even granting her eye contact, scribbling down drugs for her to consume. Calming drugs—helping her go from feral to domesticated.

She begins her minuscule walk.

Rings the doorbell and manoeuvres through the same questionnaire.

But this time, a Mrs Wright.

Three kids.

No glow whatsoever.

A derelict face.

She's done.

But something is off. A sensation that tingles throughout her. Hatred she's already so acquainted with. She can define it and control it—a simple feeling. When in doubt, kill everyone in the whole world, as someone highly educated surely must've stated somewhere when high on crack.

She begins her walk to her next house.

Stops.

No.

Mr Cooper feels too old for his wife.

Why only two kids?

Is he lazy?

So.

She changes it.

Recasting the truth.

Mr Cooper becomes a bit younger, and they have three kids as she feels there's something obscure and unstable about two kids so far apart. She's adding a name—a Karen, soon to turn nine.

Mrs Wright, on the other hand, felt a tad too battered.

So, her eldest, Ian, gets to become older, having already fled the nest.

Studying somewhere within comfortable travel distance.

"Hi there, are you Mr Stephens? I'm Sarah Dockard with the Census Bureau. As you might know, we're conducting a census in this area."

Mr Stephens has ejaculated with honours five commemorable times into Mrs Stephens.

She can hear the screams. Ruckus. A house alive.

It's not fair.

Some have to make do with echoes instead of fresh voices.

So she changes that. Now, their son Trevor doesn't exist anymore. The pen obliterates him without effort, just as the lovely lady in the paper shop so elegantly explained and demonstrated. She had stood there. Awestruck with the possibility to alter errors. Such delightful symbolism. Banality in its purest form. Without traction or traces.

At the next house, a Mr Joergensen opens. No bikes on the lawn. A face not vandalised by endless nights, hoping that the little one won't puke anymore, staining linens and doilies.

He answers "zero" when she asks. Not "none" or "I don't have any". Zero. A bureaucratic and unambiguous reply. Zero is that absolute nothingness that no one can debate. An unquestionable factuality.

She leaves, clutching her pen.

She adds to Mr Joergensen's life, illuminating it with a light in the tunnel holding grandchildren. His last name felt European. So he gets a Greta and a Fredrick. Twins. Born just minutes apart. Maybe even telepathically linked? So she adds an asterisk, writing this down.

Someone might care later.

Down the street, she adds a wife to divorcee Mr Anderson. A lone looner of epic proportions in dire need of a spouse that can help him find his bearings. Someone pointless and harmless to locate his worth.

"Hi. My name's Rachel McCoy and I'm counting y'all people here on this street."

And she smiles at Mrs Ruebens, who smiles back, mirroring every hesitant movement.

"One son, Jake, he's 15."

So she jots it down. Fifteen is a tedious age. Rebellion and masturbation. Underwear with seed. The fear of opening a simple door as sexuality lurks wherever one might turn.

Jake is now 6.

When they are still cuddly.

Seeking closeness. Love in high supply.

She helps them.

These families.

It's a lot to deal with.

All this social pressure leaching on already tormented mothers and fathers hoping that their kids won't have it in them to carry out a school shooting.

So they buy organic yoghurt, hoping it'll do the trick.

There's probably a link between the lack of organic yoghurt and school shooters. Or any shooters at all. One must not limit oneself to schools. Anything can be shot.

She knows.

A Mr Kerry gets two more daughters to balance that whole rowdy boy trio he has going for himself. Menstruation will halt their onslaught.

Mrs O'Keefe can't stay a widow; that's just bizarre and heartbreaking. So, Sergio joins the fray, bringing children from a previous marriage where that wife died, but she was a bitch. So it's okay.

She's happy now.

Happier.

Unused muscles fighting to uphold chirpiness.

The sun equals warmth and not remembrances.

She's Tara now.

Michelle.

Juliet.

When shall someone sane enough muster the energy to come to her house and count her?

One.

It's ever so effortless.

At last, she's reached the end of the road.

Literally.

It's just a forest before her.

Next to her is a house for sale.

Ranch style in that way where it looks as if a giant has sat upon it.

Squashing it.

Killing all within.

But blood comes off eventually. She's learned how.

A for sale sign that's so easy to remove. Just grab it from the lawn and chuck it from a moving car into the river, just as you can chuck recently fired guns and then watch from afar as officials drag the water.

She goes inside. Breaking and entering.

Inside is a canvas—white pages of opportunity.

A life to live.

A stillborn re-born.

Unfurnished and untouched.

Starting anew.

People won't point at the house and say, "isn't that where…."

Instead, they'll hear and see chubby feet dash about on the lawn, giggling themselves to sleep.

She sits down on the floor.

Her protocol is full of re-shaped families and invented people.

A Mr Guiterrez got a dog, even if that's not really within the realm of her duty.

Labrador.

Addendums in the margin, her whole protocol scheduled to be archived.

She lets herself bask in the potential silence.

Writes her own name—this address.

Three kids.

Theo.

Abby.

And little Owen.

They're about to start school.

Their father takes them every day.

She does the dishes.

No one masturbates in this house.

They watch entertaining and child-appropriate public programming at night.

Sometimes they go out for Mexican but ask the waiter to keep it mild, on the verge of bland, because why shouldn't they?

Their cheese isn't pre-sliced.

This feels correct now.

Johnnie and Theresa can't see what she does.

Nevertheless.

She's good at counting.