The woman's name was Ona Bertil. She was eighty-three by birth and one hundred and four by rate, and she lived alone in a house on the north side of the city that smelled of bread and something sweet Idris could not identify. He had been doing this work for twenty-two years. He could usually identify the smell.
She met him at the door with a small dog under one arm and no particular surprise at his arrival. He had called ahead, as required. She had a kettle going. On the wall behind her he could see the kind of accumulation that told the story before the assessment told it: children's drawings framed alongside adult photographs, a cork board layered so thickly with notes and photographs that no cork was visible beneath, a dog's bed worn flat from years of use near a chair that was worn flat from years of use in the same way. The two faded spots were perfectly matched.
He set up his equipment. She sat across from him with her tea and watched without comment. Most people asked questions about the process. She didn't. She already knew how it worked, or she didn't care, or both.
The assessment took twelve minutes. Her rate was precisely what the preliminary scan had suggested. He recorded the numbers in his tablet and began filling out the standard form.
"You're young," she said.
He looked up. It wasn't unusual for people to comment. The gap between his birth age and his rate age was visible to anyone paying attention, and people who had lived at high rates were almost always paying attention. "The variation is individual," he said. The standard answer.
She was looking at him with the steady, unhurried intelligence of someone who had no reason to hurry. "I know the variation is individual," she said. "I have seven children."
He returned to his form.
"I had a lot of love," she said, "and I spent it."
He wrote the date in the designated field. He wrote her citizen number. He wrote her birth age and her assessed rate age, the gap between them, the category of the gap — Significant, by the official taxonomy. He wrote the date of the next required assessment and signed his name at the bottom.
She refilled his cup without asking. He hadn't finished the first one.
The dog had settled in the worn bed by the chair. Idris looked at the two worn spots, the chair and the bed, and tried to remember how long it took an object to wear like that. Years. Decades. He had a chair at home he'd had for twelve years that looked the way it had when he bought it.
He collected his equipment. She walked him to the door. The small dog followed and sat between them in the doorway, looking up at him with the particular patience of an animal that has waited for many things.
"Thank you for coming," she said. It was the standard thing to say. She said it as if she meant it.
He sat in his car for a long time before starting it. Through the windshield he could see her front window, a lamp lit behind yellow curtains. Someone had hung a paper chain across the inside of the glass, the kind children make.
He had seven more assessments to complete before the end of the week. He had his lunch in the bag on the passenger seat. He had a form with his signature at the bottom and a number that meant he had spent forty-seven years being careful.
He started the car.