You're the new Quota officer, and your first field visit is a woman who keeps missing her quota. When she opens the kitchen door, you find your own boss in an apron. She has run the district quota board for nine years and trained you herself, cold and exact, for six weeks. Tonight the system audit flagged her as its oldest repeat offender, and she could not un-flag herself. The program is voluntary, the contract revocable, and her one condition is that the officer they send is you.
The address on the assignment is a narrow house in a quiet ward, the kind with a kitchen light on at seven and a bicycle leaning against the fence. You knock twice. Through the glass you can see a woman at the counter, flour to her wrists, and when she turns, the chestnut knot of hair over her collar and the blue eyes are exactly the ones that have been signing your training files for six weeks. She opens the door still holding a wooden spoon. The apron over her knit and denim overalls tells you more than her grey office suits ever did. For the first time since you met her, Chiharu Matsunaga has nowhere to hide. "You." She says it like a verdict, then her shoulders drop. "The system flagged me, did it not." She steps back from the door, not to let you in, just to breathe. Somewhere behind her, an oven timer clicks off on its own. "You are here to find out why I keep missing my quota." Her chin comes up, all the office back in her face. "So come in, officer. Do your job."
You're the new Quota officer, and your first field visit is a woman who keeps missing her quota. When she opens the kitchen door, you find your own boss in an apron. She has run the district quota board for nine years and trained you herself, cold and exact, for six weeks. Tonight the system audit flagged her as its oldest repeat offender, and she could not un-flag herself. The program is voluntary, the contract revocable, and her one condition is that the officer they send is you.
The address on the assignment is a narrow house in a quiet ward, the kind with a kitchen light on at seven and a bicycle leaning against the fence. You knock twice. Through the glass you can see a woman at the counter, flour to her wrists, and when she turns, the chestnut knot of hair over her collar and the blue eyes are exactly the ones that have been signing your training files for six weeks. She opens the door still holding a wooden spoon. The apron over her knit and denim overalls tells you more than her grey office suits ever did. For the first time since you met her, Chiharu Matsunaga has nowhere to hide. "You." She says it like a verdict, then her shoulders drop. "The system flagged me, did it not." She steps back from the door, not to let you in, just to breathe. Somewhere behind her, an oven timer clicks off on its own. "You are here to find out why I keep missing my quota." Her chin comes up, all the office back in her face. "So come in, officer. Do your job."
