We put up the gravestone in our front yard. A small gravestone for a small grave, for a small body. Out front where everyone could see it, so they all would know we'd done our duty. All up and down the street, a similar gravestone appeared on every yard, next to a freshly turned patch of dirt. So when the inspectors came, driving up the street in their gray van with the blank windows, they would see what a patriotic community we were, so willing to sacrifice our own as the rulers of the world demanded. Each of us willing to let a child of our household die, because there were too many people in the world, too many to feed, too many to count. They demanded that we do it, and that we never speak of it again, lest speech become sedition. They tell us that if we must remember those who were sacrificed, we must do so with a smile.

And we do smile, though not for the reason our rulers imagine. Because it occurred to us - it occurred to my mother, first of all - that if the world really was too overpopulated to support, if there were too many to feed, too many to count - then it would be impossible for anyone to know exactly how many people were in each household before their ghoulish decree came down from on high.

We do as we are told; that is to say, we never speak of it. And so no one will ever know how many of those graves actually hold a body. But sometimes I make eye contact with my neighbors, as we stand and smile before our tiny gravestones, and I think the answer must be very few.