“There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children, she didn’t know what to do.
She gave them some broth without any bread,
And whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.”
No one lives in a shoe.
That’s just what the children call it.
The building curves inward in a way that doesn’t feel right. Hallways narrow toward the ends. Rooms taper off like something was trying to make space where there wasn’t any. The youngest are kept at the “toe.” The older ones, what few there are, closer to the “heel.”
It’s not official terminology.
But it sticks.
The woman assigned to the ward isn’t as old as she looks. Forty, maybe. Fifty at most. Hard to tell under the weight of it all. Too many children. Not enough staff. Not enough food. Not enough patience left in the world.
She has charts. Protocols. A schedule that says what happens and when.
Morning: broth.
Afternoon: quiet time.
Evening: correction.
They don’t call it whipping anymore. Not out loud. But the marks tell their own story. Compliance is easier when they’re too tired to resist. Easier when the crying stops.
The crying is the worst part.
Because it isn’t random.
It builds.
One starts, then another, then all of them - layering over each other until it becomes something else entirely. Not noise. Not distress.
Pattern.
Like they’re remembering something together.
That’s when she intervenes.
Not out of anger.
Out of necessity.
Because when they sync up like that, things...change.
She filed reports once...early on.
Subject group exhibits shared vocalization patterns inconsistent with developmental norms.
Environmental distortion noted during peak episodes. Spatial compression? Unverified.
They sent back a memo.
Staff fatigue is a known factor. Recommend rest cycle adjustment.
There is no rest cycle adjustment.
There is only the schedule.
And the counting.
Always the counting.
She lines them up at night. Makes them lie still. Heads facing the same direction. Hands where she can see them.
Counts once.
Counts twice.
Counts again.
Because the number is never quite right.
Too many some nights.
Not enough others.
The broth doesn’t stretch. It never stretches. Yet somehow, there’s always just enough bowls.
That bothers her more than anything.
More than the sounds.
More than the way the walls seem to lean in when they start up together.
More than the way the smallest ones sometimes look at her like they’re waiting for her to understand something.
She’s started writing the numbers on the walls.
Tallies.
Scratched in, over and over.
Erase. Rewrite. Recount.
Because the charts don’t match.
Because the charts say there are twenty-three.
The walls say otherwise.
---
They came on a Thursday.
Two of them. Clean shoes. Clipboards. The kind of people who don’t stay long.
She met them at the door.
Relieved.
Actually relieved.
“You’re here,” she said. “Good. Good. I’ve been documenting everything.”
They nodded in that distant way people do when they’ve already decided what they’re looking at.
“Of course,” one said. “We’re just going to take a look around.”
They walked the ward.
Noted the bowls.
The beds.
The marks on the walls.
“Where are the children?” the other one asked.
She blinked.
Looked past them.
Down the hall.
“They’re...” she started.
And stopped.
Because the hall was empty.
Too empty.
No movement.
No sound.
No layered breathing.
No pattern.
Just the curve of the corridor, bending inward like it always had.
She laughed.
Just a little.
“They were just here,” she said. “I just put them down. I counted them. I always count them.”
The two exchanged a look.
The first one made a note.
“Ma’am,” he said carefully, “there are no registered minors assigned to this facility.”
That didn’t make sense.
Of course it didn’t make sense.
She had the charts.
The schedule.
The marks.
The bowls.
She turned, slowly, back toward the room.
Toward the rows of beds.
Toward the walls covered in numbers scratched over numbers scratched over numbers.
Empty.
All of it empty.
Her breath caught.
Something in her chest tightening.
“No,” she said. “No, that’s not...”
From somewhere deep in the building,
past the last room,
past the narrowing hall,
down where the walls bent too close together -
something shifted.
A soft, collective rustle.
Like bodies adjusting.
Like many small things settling in unison.
The two at the door didn’t react.
They didn’t hear it.
She did.
Of course she did.
And then -
very faint -
very small -
something laughed.
Not one voice.
All of them.
Together.
---
The first inspector frowned.
“Did you hear that?” he asked.
The second shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Just the pipes.”
They stood there a moment longer.
Listening.
The building held its breath.
Then exhaled.
Slow.
Satisfied.
Subtle.
The walls easing outward.
The hall stretching just a little.
Making room.
The first inspector shifted his weight.
“Probably nothing,” he said.
“Probably,” the second agreed.
He glanced down at his clipboard.
Paused.
“Hey,” he said. “How many beds did you count?”
The first looked back toward the room.
Toward the rows.
Toward the numbers on the walls.
He hesitated.
“…Twenty-five,” he said.
The second frowned.
“That’s not right.”
“No”
They both turned.
Slowly.
Back down the hall.
Where the corridor curved.
Where it narrowed.
Where something -just out of sight -
waited.
---
Behind them, in the room -
the woman began to count again.
And this time -
the number fit.
---
Morning: broth.
Afternoon: quiet time.
Evening: correction.
Intake: two.
copyright notice © 2026 Michael C. Metzger
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