The Human Census

She had a tablet, a lanyard, and a paper cup of diner coffee I had poured ten minutes earlier. Booth four, Tuesday slow. The form showed June Pell, 14 Oak Street, occupation: waitress. And June Pell, last known address: Hollowridge Lodge, occupation: Luna, status: missing person, filed by Alpha Pell.

I had left the lodge with a duffel and a bus ticket. I had not been stolen. I had walked.

The worker lowered her voice. "If I keep the missing record, county search-and-rescue stays active. If I keep the waitress record, the missing file looks like a false report."

Through the window I saw a pack truck idle at the hardware store, two wolves pretending to look at paint chips.

The worker's stylus hovered. "Which life is the real one?"

My name tag said JUNE. The diner's radio was doing weather and a used-car ad. The grill hissed. I had pancake batter on my wrist.

"The waitress one," I said. Then I heard how fast it came out, and I said, "Give me a minute. That's a legal minute, not a coy one."

She nodded. Her name was Patel, census. She had seen stranger doubles, she told me later: snowbirds, identity theft, a man who listed himself dead to dodge a loan. She had not seen a Luna.

I refilled booth two because work is a way to think. The pack truck did not leave. Alpha Pell — my former husband in the only sense packs recognize — had filed me missing three weeks after I took the dawn bus. Missing persons get flyers. Flyers get human deputies knocking on human doors. A Luna who "vanished" is easier to retrieve than a Luna who quit.

I had quit.

The lodge had smelled like wet stone and his mother's opinions. I had been Luna the way a vase is a vase: placed, polished, not asked whether it wanted flowers. When I said I wanted a job in town, he laughed. When I took the job anyway, he called it a phase. When I packed the duffel, he told the hall I was confused. Confusion is a word men use when a woman has a timetable.

Patel waited. I washed my hands. The soap was lemon industrial. I like that smell. It does not belong to any pack.

"If I stay missing," I said, "they can keep pulling county resources. They can knock here with a photo from the winter solstice, the one where I'm in a dress I didn't pick. If I stay waitress, I have to go on record that the missing file is false. That makes him a liar in human ink."

"That's accurate," Patel said, mild.

The bell over the door jingled. Pell came in with the two paint-chip wolves behind him like an argument. He wore the jacket he wears for town, the one without the pack patch. He still filled the diner like weather.

"June," he said. "We've been looking."

"You've been filing," I said. "Different verb."

Patel looked between us. She did not stand up. Census workers are not deputies, but they are not scenery either. She turned the tablet so the double record was visible.

Pell smiled for the room. "That's a clerical error. She's my wife. She had an episode. We're taking her home."

Episode. Timetable. Confusion. I poured coffee I did not intend to drink and set it down so my hands would have an object.

"I live at 14 Oak," I said. "I pay rent. I work Tuesday through Saturday. I am not missing. I am off his roster."

One of the paint-chip wolves sniffed, just once. Pell's mouth tightened. Scent doesn't care about jackets.

"The bond," he began.

"The bond can sit in your truck," I said. "It doesn't get to file a missing person because I took a bus."

The cook, Ray, who is human and who has heard enough of my early-morning stories to choose a side, came out wiping his hands. "She's on the schedule, pal. You want food, you sit. You want a scene, you take it to the parking lot and I call the sheriff. We have a sign."

He pointed. NO FIGHTING. It was meant for drunks. It worked on Alphas who wanted to look civilized in a room with a pie case.

Pell tried the soft voice. "June. The pack needs a Luna. The levy. The hunts. You made vows."

"I made vows when I was nineteen and your mother was holding the pen," I said. "I unmade them when I left a note on the kitchen table that you tore up. The county still has the bus ticket if you want a receipt."

Patel cleared her throat. "I need a selection for the master file. Living residence, occupation, and whether to flag the missing report as unfounded."

I looked at Pell. I looked at the pack truck. I looked at my name tag.

"Keep June Pell, 14 Oak Street, waitress," I said. "Flag the Hollowridge missing file unfounded. I'll sign whatever you have."

Patel slid a paper affidavit across the Formica. I signed. My signature is the same one I used on lodge ledgers. Ink doesn't care about titles.

Pell reached for the paper. Ray's spatula landed on the counter with a sound like a gavel. Pell's hand stopped. He is brave in a lime circle. He is less brave in a diner with a camera over the register.

"You'll regret the human paper," he said.

"I regret the lodge more," I said. "Go file a divorce the pack way if you need a ceremony. Don't file me like a lost dog."

He left. The paint-chip wolves followed. The truck pulled out too fast and clipped the hardware store's pothole, which felt like a small, stupid victory.

Patel packed her tablet. "For what it's worth," she said, "the county prefers people who are where they say they are. Search-and-rescue is expensive. So is a lie."

I boxed a slice of apple pie for her because I still believe in tipping the universe in pie. She laughed, once.

After close, I walked to 14 Oak in the drizzle. The porch light was the kind that attracts moths. I had a leaky faucet and a plant I had not named. I sat on the step and listened. No howl. Just a radio in a neighbor's kitchen and a cat under the car.

In the morning the diner would need coffee again. The census would keep one June. The pack could keep their missing flyers for the recycling bin.

I clocked in at six. The name tag still said JUNE. That was the record I wanted, and I kept it.