The ground I walk on seems to always crumble and squelch with every begrudged step. Tufts of grass appear as if artefacts of fields past, their dancing in the wind reminds me of those children’s parties and school sports days. This enclosure - levelled and measured in recent years - seems an echo of life before.

Life still trudges onwards. Cacophonous squeals and piercing shouts and firm tapping consumes the mud from blue fence to blue fence. My footsteps, steady in the blistering wind, bring towards the Huts. There are 54 of them, 6 by 9, and each is labelled with a “L” for large, M for “medium” and S for “small”. The paint is thick and grey (it was meant to be silver to reflect the moonlight) and indicates my path through the wooden houses. According to Doctor, I should expect an average of 25 eggs today which is more than usual. Apparently it’s a consequence of the moisture’s peculiar distribution or hormone imbalances of some kind but his conversations with me quickly dissolve into a noise among others.

First Hut - an S today. My head pokes inside and I am met with inquisitive eyes. Behind them lurks a shadow of desperation; shadows seem more common now than they were before even in creatures that usually bathe in the light. I invade their space but no sound protests my entrance - a good day.

There were 12 eggs. I smirk in considering a fault in the averages but my eyes cannot help but rolling. Doctor is always right: there will be more eggs later to make up for the deficit so far. My route continues with no anomalies and I have collected.

“One thousand, three hundred and fifty.” Doctor repeats with a yellowing, rotting grin and a sip of his coffee. He might regurgitate wisdom and experience self-imposed freedom but behind that desk he has no intelligence. I would never dare to question the knowledge he retains daily - he has no intelligence.

I sign out at 1900. A bottle of water is handed to me on my way out of the barn; the attendant’s plastic smile bleaches my mind with annoyance. She is consciously superficial, beyond the obliviousness of so many which kindles my agitations. Her orange jacket, yellow hat, red lipstick, hints of sunshine although it is sinking in the horizon. She was probably a teacher before or at least something active and on her feet. I’m certain because her feet were not shaking by the time I left the farmyard - so many of them experience internal earthquakes by 1700.

The sun pokes its head above the tree lines, a dismal torch guiding me back to Block 82A. As the Huts interrupt my beacon to privacy, I notice the blue fences lining the pavement. Even if darkness did permeate my walk home, they could be a handrail if necessary.