I'm sitting by the clay stove, with my best friend Havan. He's cutting onions while I'm stirring the rice. It's a a strange moment of something that's like the faintest shadow of peace. What's strange about this moment is that it's happening during the census. The time where everyone is on edge. 

"What are you thinking?" Havan asks me. 

"Oh. Just that I like sitting here with you. It almost like it's not census week."

"Oh you're so sweet. I like sitting with you too. I always like spending time with you." 

"Me too."

"Imagine this as just a holiday. A few days where all the people can gather together." 

"Oh I wish I could. But when I think of how we're all together I think of why we're all together and then I get sad." 

"That's unfortunate. It's not your fault though." 

"I know. How about you? Can you keep the dread from your mind?"

"Of course not. But we live with what we have." 

"I do suppose we do."

We both whip our heads around, sensing danger. The door to the room, a rickety little thing of straw, is pulled open. In step two women dressed in sequinned dresses that swirl with fireworks of colour. 

They are beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. With shining dark hair and and smooth fresh skin and rounded nails painted pretty colours. They are still dark like maple tree bark. But they are much lighter than those of us who work under the sun. Their painted lips do not smile. They gaze cooly and seriously around the room. 

"We're looking for a Miss Nanette Woblegreen to do an interview with for the census." I look up at them, masking my shock and fear. They picked me. I didn't think they'd pick me. Of course, there was always the option of it happening. But it always felt a bit unreal. 

Well it's all too real now. 

"It's me," I reply, getting up. 

"Come with us." I follow behind them as they lead me out of the room filled with my people, who are all meticulously trying to look unbothered and trying not to look at me as I make my way out. 

We walk all the way down the street and out of the neighbourhood. They take me to a large van with writing on the side. There are two large, windowed doors at the rear end of it. They unlock the doors and I follow them in. 

Inside is a cool, air conditioned little room, with two plush seats that have trays in front of them. The researchers get into the seats snd I am left standing in front of them. 

"Please, sit down," one of the women insists. I look around the bare room, and then take a seat where I am on the floor. 

"We just need some basic information first. What is your name and gender?" 

"Nanette Woblegreen, I'm a demigirl." 

"That's not a real gender. What's your real gender?" I know I have to give an answer they will be satisfied with. But I just ... I just had to put this out there. I can't stand it when people don't know my gender. 

"I'm sorry. I'm a girl. It's just ... it's hard to be a girl sometimes." I quickly cover myself with a lie. A lie that's fully formed. One that was handed down to me by the mothers of my community.

The older women in their sparkly outfits write something down on their papers. 

"So do you feel that it's more difficult, being a girl?" They look down their nose at me and I can't help but feel like an insect being scrutinized. 

"Yes. It's definitely hard." I keep my answer short, wanting to see how they take it. Wanting to see how they want me to answer. Subtly letting them direct me in the right direction as I wait for their response. 

"I can imagine. What, would you say, makes it hard?" 

"The men, of course." I try to keep my answers polite but short. Anxiety rushes through me and pounds in my head. But that's good. If makes it all the easier to think. I just have to hide my fear. 

"And what do the men do, that's so oppressive?" Their tones are detached. Apathetic. Slightly disgusted. 

"The better question would be what don't they do? They're always trying to cause conflicts and start fights. They always find something wrong with you. Something to denounce you for. And they always make more work for us." It's a rehearsed answer. One I know well. One anyone with my anatomy would know well. Those with the opposite anatomy would have a different answer that they also rehearsed as well. 

I can feel the floor of the van dig into my thighs. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. My blood rushing in my ears. My breath feels like it's stuck in my chest. 

The women are writing in their notebooks, every hair in place. I don't know how to write. 

"So who is in your family?" The one with longer hair asks me. 

"I have a mother and a father. And two younger brothers." I can't lie about this. They have records of who's related to who. I can - and must - lie about the next part though. "And I have a husband, his name is Lieffen." Lieffen is my neighbour. A great guy. I wouldn't mind raising children with him. But he's just a friend. A friend I court-married for tax benefits. And to make the government believe that we were straight. 

I can't let them know about my girlfriend, Lavina. 

"And is your husband your first love?" 

"I wouldn't say I'm in love with him," I force a chuckle to come out of my parched throat, "I just married him for convenience." This isn't even a lie. I laugh morosely, internally, to myself. 

"Alright." They continue writing in their notebooks. I force my breathing to stay even. I force my face to stay blank. 

"How is your relationship with your brothers?" The woman with curly hair asks me. 

"Honestly, I kind of resent them. As a kid I always had to take care of them. I could never be a kid myself." It's true that I often had to take care of the younger kids while I myself was an older kid, when the adults and teenagers of the neighbourhood were away. But I never resented anyone for that. No-one but the well-off who made all the parents be away at work all day and sometimes late into the night. 

"That's understandable. Are they married?" 

"Not yet." 

One of the women nod. But no-one says anything. I wonder for the briefest moment if I've said something wrong. But no, I can't have. This was an easy question. I only spoke the truth. 

"And when you were getting married, was there pressure upon you to do so?" 

"Yes." I steel myself to go through dangerous territory again. "There was." And again, this isn't exactly a lie. There was pressure, it was just from entrenched queerphobia, not my community. Of course, I don't let them know this. 

"And what is your relationship with your mother?" 

"Not very good." The carefully-formed falsehood leaves my lips. "She thinks that just because she's older than me she gets to boss me around." There is power in numbers. There is power in togetherness. They can't know that we have power. Or else they'll retaliate against us. 

"And what of your relationship with your father?" 

"Oh even worse." I let myself think of my father for a second. He's sick. Has been so for months. He likely won't make it. He's sweet. Self-sacrificing. Full of stories and suffering and inspiration. I can't help it, tears flow out of my eyes. I hope they don't know the true source. 

"And why is it so?" 

"Oh well he's older than me and he's a man. So he doubly thinks he can tell me what to do." 

"I see," the curly-haired one states coldly. "And what is the relationship between your mother and your father?" 

I think of my mother coming home from work and holding my father's hand as he coughs on his blanket. I think of the sadness, of the love in her eyes. I think of the danger that she's in. I think of how I'm the only one right now who can keep her safe. 

"It's strained," I answer. "But it works just fine. They're together to raise us children and they did it, they raised us. So whatever is or isn't between their marriage is successful enough." I gulp down my fear. 

"And you had one brother who died when he was young, did you not?"

"Yes." Actually, I had a sister as well. But she died so very young that neither her birth nor her death were recorded. 

"And how about friends? Do you have any friends?" 

The safest answer to this question is to say that I didn't. To say that I wasn't tied to anyone else in the community. The whole community had agreed. That we needed to present ourselves as isolated, insular units. To avoid even giving them the faintest impression that we were one united front. 

"I don't have any friends. I mostly just keep to my family." 

"Alright," the straight-haired one replies. Then both the women don't say anything for a while. They spend time writing. Occasionally they check the shiny glass tablets they procured from their dainty purses. 

Anxiety buzzes and builds inside me until I think I'm fit to bursting with it. But I keep sitting there. Unmoving. Face blank. Though it's so very difficult to sit here. Unmoving. Face blank. I feel like I will explode into screaming. I don't know how much longer I can take this for. 

"So what about work?" The straight-haired woman finally asks. "What do you do for a living?" 

"I paint dolls in the doll factory," I reply. 

"And how is that? Do you enjoy it?" 

"Yes. Very much," I lie. In reality I truly despise work so much. It's so straining and stressful and repetitive. But if they have any indication of discontentment, my whole community will be in trouble. So it's best to play the part of the contented citizen. 

"Do you feel satisfied at work?" 

"I do. I feel satisfied and complete." 

"And what about working makes you feel this way?" The curly-haired one asks, voice uncaring. 

Hmm, I wonder what. Is it the painful, mind-numbing repetitiveness? Is it the headaches from noxious paint? Is it the overwhelming, terrifying quotas? Is it the backbreaking speed I must pace myself at? Is it the weariness? The lack of breaks? The overseer looking down my neck? What is it? 

"I just love to be busy," I reply. "I love to be doing things. To feel like I'm contributing to society." 

"That's admirable." This statement from the straight-haired one is the biggest show of emotion either of them have ever given me. I almost want to scoff. Or to laugh. Or to cry. 

"Do you think the hours are too long?" The curly-haired one asks. 

I think about how infinitely unending the work days seem. How the hours stretch on and on and on. About how the days go on and on and on, one after another. There is no escape. I ... 

"I don't find them too long. The longer to stay away from my family, the better." They seem to be satisfied with that answer 

"And do you harbour any resentment towards your employers?"

Do I? /Do I?/ Like the sun shines in the daytime I do. Like the air surrounds us all, I do. Like the earth brings forth life, I do. But I say what I have to say. 

"I don't. After all, they give me work. They keep me clothed and fed and housed." 

"Good for you." The curly-haired one smiles. "Taking care of yourself." Her cold and disinterested tone does not match the words that come out of her mouth. 

I think deeply about every word she says, that either of them say. I analyze them, look for clues into what I should say. It's nerve-wracking but at the same time it's thrilling. I love a good challenge. 

"So," the long-haired one begins, "we would like to ask what your future plans are."

"Future plans? I'll just probably have children with my husband. Keep working." I'll probably adopt children if I have them but they don't need to know that. 

"That's acceptable," she replies, her mascaraed eyelashes sharp against her face. "How many children are you planning to have?"

"I don't know. I'll have to decide that with my husband. Though that's not a conversation I look forwards to at all."

I keep my answers vague. But vague in such a way that they don't seem vague. I am just a thread in a cloth. I weave a cloth of lies to cover the truth that's inside. 

"Now let's talk about religion," the curly one says to me. 

"Of course?" 

"Do you believe in the gods?" 

"Of course I do. They're a big part of my life." Of course I don't tell them about which gods. Of course I don't tell them about our secret gods. This answer isn't even a lie. Technically. 

"And if the priests told you to do something for the sake of the gods, would you do it?" 

"Of course I would." My heart keeps pounding. Fear keeps rushing through me. But I think I can make it. I've made it so far. 

"Do you think the gods help your life or impede it?" 

"I have no time for such thoughts. The gods must must be followed no matter what." I keep my face blank. My tone even. I don't let them know about the whirling storm inside. 

"Do you believe the priests are right and true about what they teach about the gods? Or do you think there is more that they don't know?" The curly one's tone has a hard, sharp edge to it. It makes my heart pulse fast with fear. Though of course I don't show this. Can't show this. 

"Of course they're right," I reply through my fear, trying to soothe her. "They are, after all, educated. They are the most educated on this matter, on the matter of religion, and they should be listened to." 

They pause to write. I pause to think. A memory flashes in my mind. Auburnee mocking the priest's deep, slow voice and smug, self-important tone. All of us laughing. I force down my smile. 

"We're over halfway done," the straight-haired one tells me. I let out a sign of relief internally. I made it this far. The worst of it is over. I can make it through this. Make it through this and hopefully never be picked again. 

"Okay," I reply with false calmness. 

[scene continued in next part]