Two weeks later, the next inspection. Conveniently, the company finds more live bugs. I didn’t see them this time either. No one did. Just an email — timestamped 6:02 a.m. — saying “evidence of continued live activity was observed.”
I read that phrase twice. Observed by who?
I scroll down, half expecting a signature or a technician’s name. There isn’t one. Just the same closing line as before:
“Thank you for your cooperation in maintaining a clean and healthy living environment.”
Word for word, identical to the previous emails. The font, the spacing, even the little blue hyperlink under the company’s name that doesn’t actually go anywhere. I checked again, just to be sure. Still nothing.
I called the main office. The woman there didn’t sound surprised — just tired. She said the company handled everything directly with management now, and they didn’t have to be present for the treatments anymore. That word — treatments — stuck with me. I imagined my mother sitting in her chair, the TV flickering, as invisible men in invisible uniforms sprayed invisible chemicals through her apartment.
When I called her later that evening, she mentioned the chair was sticky — presumably from the chemicals, she said. But there was something in her voice, a hesitation, as if she wasn’t entirely sure it was the chemicals. I didn’t know what to say, so I just told her we’d keep vacuuming.
Who’s paying for this? Not my mother — her rent hasn’t changed. And the company certainly isn’t doing it for free. So maybe it’s management. Maybe it’s no one. Maybe the invoices go into a system somewhere, processed and filed, the money shifting hands without ever touching a person.
I open the old emails again. Side by side. They’re exactly the same. Every one of them. Even the punctuation. It’s like someone took a template and just hit send every two weeks, whether there were bugs or not.
Except one thing.
The most recent email doesn’t have the subject line “Follow-Up Inspection Notice.” It says “Re-Entry Scheduled.”
That’s new.
I stared at it for a long time, feeling something low and slow crawl through me. I could almost hear the hum of the vacuum from all those nights at my mother’s place — the endless whine as if the sound itself was the only proof that anything was happening.
I closed my laptop. The light from the screen left a faint red afterimage on the wall. For half a second, it looked like a circle.