That's the thing about making your life in a small town - they'll know where you live. And they'll walk right in. They are the 2020 Census Enumerators. Nobody in this town keeps their doors locked at night, or during the day, mostly because it is completely unnecessary, being the small and safe town that it is. But also, because, everyone knows that everyone else in this town is armed. So you don't really worry about anyone coming in at night to attempt a burglary, they'll obviously have their head blown off relatively quickly. And usually people knock, and wait to see if someone answers the door. But this rule of thumb doesn't apply to types that become Census Enumerators. As in most small towns that are consistently quiet and safe, the sort of person that applied for that position fit a pretty regular profile: old retired folks looking for something to get them out of the house, reconnect with their neighbors, and maybe make a few dollars in the process. The Census doesn't pay bad money, after all, and for bored elderly widows it is a Godsend. Why wouldn't they want to talk to their neighbors that no longer visit, why wouldn't they want to speak with their best friend's grandchildren, why wouldn't they want to find out the neighborhood gossip of who had new babies and other dependents, and hear the occasional juicy detail of an interracial or gay couple living right down the street? But my Census Enumerator... She knew me from Childhood. She had even changed my diapers. And I always talked to her whenever we saw each other at the store, and I even visited her ever month or so, usually bringing some jerky I had made, or at least news of my brothers, and how they were doing in the cities that they moved to. But I never invited her over to my house. I never invited anyone over to my house. Because my house is not a place I like to have company over. What happens in my house is my business. And she didn't respect that. Old Mrs. Harwood, widow of my late father's best friend, and good friend to my estranged mother, knocked on my door. And the thing is, unlike most people in town, I keep my door locked. Usually. Five minutes prior, I had been ready to take my truck out to help a friend haul some stumps and logs he needed taken off his property. But, suddenly, I had to use my facilities to rid myself of some taco-based poison I had ingested the night before. In that short time frame, from when I was struggling and squirting vile liquid into my septic tank, she came around to knock on my door and count the people on the inside of my house. Nobody answered, and knowing me and my family, she found the door to be unlocked, and decided to enter. That's when she heard the screaming. Part of it was me. But most of it wasn't. I finished my filthy duty and got out of my lavatory only to find the old Misses waiting for me. >Oh my Lord, are you okay? She asked me so sincerely. I desperately wanted to play it off. >Oh Mrs. Harwood, I wasn't expecting you. I usually like to keep it private, but I have the most awful colitis. Not a topic I like to talk about in public company She seemed relaxed for a moment, although very concerned about my own welfare. I gently assured her that I would be fine. >Well, have you told your mother about your condition? I paused. >We haven't spoken in many years, she left me shortly after my father's death, I'm not sure I would know how to contact her. Well, that was enough, and she began explaining the Census process to me >How many people live here? I thought, for a moment. >Just me, by myself, I suppose And just then a scream came from the basement >What was that?!? I thought, for a mere instant, and asked >Why, i have no idea, Mrs. Harwood. Might be some sort of raccoon stuck down there. Would you come, and follow behind me, with the flashlight? Just so we could be safe. I wouldn't want to run into a monster down there, all by myself @pmyb2