a red letter arrived from the party’s local ward office. we all know what the red letter means. printed on the front (it’s more a postcard than a letter really, i don’t know why they call it "a letter") i found the date and time i was to report the next morning. i thought nothing of it. red letters poked out of mailboxes up and down our quiet little street. check ins were common. plus i had nothing to hide, so i slept unti 8, woke for my morning toilette and ate a light breakfast of coffee, pecans, walnuts and dried fruit. yummy.

i knew the way by heart (we all did) straight down western to the park, to the unmarked building with darkened windows, tucked in between the sycamores. while en route, i treated myself to the sounds of thursday morning: sleepy yawns from schoolchildren, the polite hellos of neighborhood joggers, the directives of the happy crossingguard ushering wee ones to school like a mama duck, the faded roar of a distant mower. i could smell the fresh cut grass from here. people peeked inside the neighborhood book boxes. in the far distance, car alarms blared. and over the hill, a cloud of smoke. further on the dim horizon, the sound of artillery shells. but here, the sidewalks shimmered.

i arrived at the home ward office five minutes early. the guard, a handsome young man with an imperial stache, greeted me at the door. he kept his post beside the metal detectors. behind him slumped a figure in a red jumpsuit, already tagged and bagged. once through security, a case worker ushered me into a tiny, windowless room. they politely ordered me to take a seat.

after three-quarters of an hour passed, a woman with auburn braids hurried in. she introduced herself as laurel and gave a polite show of extending her hand. how very nice, i thought. we made small talk. she smiled and nodded in agreement when i spoke and flirted a bit with her eyes and laughed when i told her about the funny things my mother did, and she cooed with me over the photos of mumsy, my prize-winning shitzu. soon we were good-old-friends. 

then laurel retrieved from her tablet a series of text messages that i had sent mother. she read them aloud to herself, smiling all the while and telling me what a good son

i was to check in on her so often. it’s the least i could do, i insisted as i gripped the armchair. 

but this, she says. at 11.01 last tuesday night, gps triangulation picked you up on the corner of larpenteur and rent street, but it says here you told your mother you were at home in bed. why would you, a good son and citizen, lie to your poor old mother like that? and so out of the blue? 

a bomb had gone off a quarter mile from larpenteur and rent last tuesday. eco-terrorists or something like that, the papers said. i was in the neighborhood meeting a friend mother would not have approved of.

i tried to explain this to laurel, but she unexpectedly powered down and her forehead slammed into the table. i sighed. the inquisitor models were all in need of an upgrade. their batteries were shot. the switches were on the backs of their heads, but she’d need a full reboot. i’d seen it done often enough, but wasn’t sure if i should take the liberty, so i waited for the case worker to return. i sat there for another three-quarter hour, biting my lower lip, eating stray strands of hair, strumming my fingernails across the chrome table top. 

the case worker arrived. she smiled and apologized. quite alright, i said. these things do happen.

she hovered over laurel’s body and rebooted her mainframe. it was like someone gave her a shot of epinephrine to the heart. she sat straight up in her seat and extended her hand: thank you for coming in, mr woodgate. at this time we will conclude our review with a crossreference against your criminal, immigration, social security, medical and amry discharge documents. you will be notified if we spot any additional irregularities in your otherwise stellar personal record.

how professional, i thought. how painless.

i left in a good mood, and bought myself an ice cream on the way back home. i felt relief knowing laurel was out there doing her job, reigning in catastrophe and agents of change. i felt safe thinking she was out there hunting down danger. 

criminals, beware (as the motto goes). we are watching you. 

i thank god i’ve nothing to hide.