34: Kansas

The house is at the end of a long, cracked asphalt road, fenced in. The field around it has gone to seed. I peer in through yellowed, ruffled curtains. An old television in the den is on, but I don’t see anyone.

I return to the front door and ring the bell. There is no name on the mailbox, no address, just the words “20th Century Castles.”

The chimes decay into a humming sound, a rumbling. The plate glass vibrates against my cheek. Inside, a man and woman appear, walking toward the door.

I step back as they open it. They’re wearing matching gray coveralls. The man is balding and the woman has a beehive. They’re blinking like they haven’t seen the sun in years.

Louis Armstrong is singing softly in the background. “What are you doing here?” the man asks after a long time. He draws his wife closer to his side. “How did you find us?”

“I work for the United States Census,” I say. “This is the last household on my list.”

“We’re not on anybody’s list,” he says.

I blink, and he grabs the notebook from my hand. I watch him leaf through its yellowed pages, shake it. Blank forms flutter to the ground. He closes it and looks me up and down, taking in my tangled hair, my stubbled cheeks.

I look at my feet. My soles are worn to paper. My satchel is stuffed with leaves. My pen is out of ink. My pin says “Census 2000.”

The door closes. The man and woman watch me through the glass. “How many people are living in this home?” I ask. I press my hand against the window. “Is there room for another one?”