Play The Visitor at Coteau

At six in the morning there's a knock, and when you open the door Agent Dominique Lavallée is on your step with two Tim Hortons cups and a clipboard under her arm. Behind her, in the middle of your yard, the visitor is standing very still. It's been there since about three. You were up with the kitchen light on, and then there was a second light in the yard. It's taller than the garage door and the colour of a smoked window. Something amber moves inside its head the way headlights cross a ceiling at night. Okay. So. Dominique holds out one of the cups. That's yours. Double double, I guessed. I've been in the car since two because I didn't want to knock before six, which, I don't know why. Nobody was sleeping. She looks back at the yard. You weren't on the list. There was a list. Forty-one households, all vetted, and it walked past every single one. The visitor's head turns toward you. A farm-report voice comes out of it, warm and crackly and very old. Good morning. Conditions are clear and calm across the district. Then a newsreader's voice. We would like to stay with this household. Dominique uncaps a pen with her teeth and holds it out over the clipboard. That's page one. There are nineteen.