A man named Leonard likes to walk in the city at night, especially in November, when it's misty and quiet.
He likes walking on the green grass all alone.
It is A. D. 2053.
He likes being alone and having the freedom to make his own choices.
When Leonard walks alone at night, he notices that many houses are dark and quiet; it feels like he's walking through a graveyard.
Sometimes, he sees lights in windows, which seem like ghostly shapes inside the rooms.
He also hears whispers coming from open windows in some buildings.
"Hello, " he whispered to every house on every side as he moved.
"What are you watching tonight on Channel 4, Channel 7, or Channel 9?
What are you looking at?
What show?
The streets were empty. He looked at his wristwatch. It was 8:30 pm.
Leonard pauses, listens, and looks at leaves, trees, and skies when walking at night.
He is careful to wear sneakers instead of hard-heeled shoes so that the dogs won't bark and people won't be startled by him walking alone at night in November.
In ten years of walking by night or day for thousands of miles, he had never met another person walking, not once in all that time.
He came to an intersection.
During the day, it's full of cars, the gas stations open, and lots of busy movements.
But now, at night, these highways are like dried rivers. He turned back, moving homewards.
A car suddenly flashed a white light on him.
A metallic voice called to him:
"Standstill.Staywhereyouare!Don'tmove!"
He stopped.
"Putupyourhands!"
"But-" he said.
"Yourhandsup!Orwe'llShoot!"
The police, of course, but what a rare thing.
In a city of 3 million, there was only one police car lef
In 2052, the election year, the police force had been cut down from 3 cars to only one. There was little or no crime. There was no need for the police.
"Yourname?" said the police car in a metallic whisper.
He couldn't see the men.
"Leonard Mead," he said.
"Speakup!"
"Leonard Mead!"
"Businessorprofession(job)?"
"I am a writer "
"Noprofession,"saidthepolicecar.
"Whatareyoudoingout?"
"Walking," said Leonard Mead.
"Walking!"
"Yes, sir."
"Walkingwhere?Forwhat?"
"Walking for air. Walking to see."
"Youraddress!"
"Eleven South Saint James Street."
"Andthereisairinyourhouse,youhaveanairconditioner,Mr.Mead?" "Yes."
"Andyouhaveaviewingscreen(TV)inyourhousetoseewith?"
"No."
"No?"
"Areyoumarried,Mr.Mead?"
"No."
"Notmarried,"saidthepolicevoice.
"Nobody wanted me," said Leonard Mead with a smile.
"Don'tspeakunlessyou'respokento!"
Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.
"Justwalking,Mr.Mead?"
"Yes."
"Butyouhaven'texplainedforwhatpurpose."
"I explained; for air, and to see, and just to walk."
"Haveyoudonethisoften?"
"Every night for years."
"Hmm.Well,Mr.Mead,"itsaid.
"Is that all?" he asked politely.
"Yes,"saidthevoice."Here,getintothecar.""Getin."
"Wait a minute, I haven't done anything!" "Getin."
"I
protest!" (TosayNO)
"Mr.Mead.Getin."
He put his hand to the door and peered into the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail with bars. It smelled too clean and hard and metallic. There was nothing soft.
"Where are you taking me?"
"TothePsychiatricCenterforResearchonRegressiveTendencies."
He got in. The door shut with a soft thud.
The police car passed one house on one street a moment later, one house in an entire city of dark houses, but this one particular house had all of its electric lights brightly lit.
"That's my house," said Leonard Mead.
No one answered him.
The car moved down, with no sound and no motion all the rest of the chill November night.
