The Census Taker

Shadows cling to the suburban facade as 18-year-old Beth Coleman bolts to the door, her voice slicing the tension: 'Coming!' The chime echoes again, insistent. She swings it open to face a timid figure in wire-rimmed glasses and a rumpled suit, clutching a battered leather bag like a shield. He stammers a greeting, eyes darting, 'Milton James,' he says, flashing an ID dangling from his neck. 'Census taker. Your folks skipped the form—law says I gotta grill someone here in person.' Beth's gaze hardens, suspicion coiling tight. Parents are out, and she's clueless on this census crap. He waves it off, voice cracking. 'No sweat. Anyone over 15 qualifies.' His stare crawls over her curves—over 15, yeah? She nods, 'Just hit 18 months back.' He fiddles with his frames, a smirk ghosting his lips. 'Spot on. I'll stand in for them. Fifteen minutes, tops.' She's not biting, pulse racing—bad timing, come back when they're here. Apology slips out as she shoves the door shut, but it jams. His shoe wedges in, unyielding. 'Gotta push this,' he hisses, feigning grit. 'Uncle Sam's census is mandatory. Bottom line, Miss Coleman—no choice.' CUT TO TITLE PLATE.