[ WP ] In this world , everything is determined by the number floating over your head . Everything . And when numbers ahead of you die or get killed , yours moves closer to the coveted position of # 1 . You 're number 22 . For now .

Hal Smith paused before sipping his coffee. There was something in it, something that was n't there before. He decided it was hazelnut, although he was n't sure that he remembered what hazelnuts smelled like. 
 
 The figured the coffee was pretty good. It had come with his Social Security, the small box of goods that the government sent to his door every month, sent to the doors of all the old geezers like him that had been born in a time when Social Security was still a thing. 
 
 Hal was advanced enough in years that he could appreciate a good cup of coffee. This stuff was definitely better than last month's package, when he was still number twenty-five. Being twenty-two evidently had its perks. 
 
 The smell of that hazelnut moved Hal to check his box again, and see if he'd overlooked anything else of interest. He picked it up from the counter top by a cardboard flap, and shook it around while peering inside. He did n't see much else in there, except it looked like they'd given him an extra bar of soap, and something else bundled in brown paper. 
 
 He picked up the bundle and weighed it in his hands. Corn bread? Maybe even a little salted pork? 
 
 Hal heard a crash outside, and the sound of men yelling. He stood there listening to them yell for a while, but then it stopped. They had moved on to yell somewhere else. 
 
 Hal looked down at the bundle, still in his hands. He wondered what might be inside it again, but decided to open it later when he was hungry. *No use getting excited, * he thought. *I ought to be thankful they're nice enough to send me anything at all. * 
 
 Every month, Hal's box came with an official letter from the government. At the top in big gold letters was his number. 
 
 Hal took another sip of his coffee and wondered what the oldest man in the country got in his box. He imagined the sweets his father had given him when he was a boy, sweets whose names he could n't remember, and wondered if they had some stowed in government warehouses for the high numbers. 
 
 More yelling outside, then a concussive bang and a series of low pops. 
 
 No, they're gone, thought Hal. There's no candy around here anymore. 
 
 *Shameful. What am I doing day-dreaming about being number one? Most folks are n't even enough to got a number. Just shameful. * 
 
 *Who needs to live that old anyway? God put me here, and he'll leave me here just as long as he needs me, and no longer. An old coot like me has got better things to do than sit here dreaming about sweet things. * 
 
 Hal stood there in his kitchen, ignoring the sporadic pops and bangs and yells outside, trying to remember the names of those sweet things he'd had as a kid. He tried to remember how they tasted, too. 
 
 After a while, his curiosity got the better of him, and he went to the icebox to open the paper bundle.
