It looked like every other hat he’d inspected on the line that day. Frankly, the darn thing looked like every other hat he’d inspected that year. Prior to that the brim was wider, and the ribbon was a higher quality satin. They changed the model to general disapproval from the inspectors.

Henry was inspector 37. After Walk, # 34, died a few months ago he got to move from 39 to 37. Sherrie at 38 didn’t want to go up, said she didn’t care about changing numbers. Truth was she thought 38 was her lucky number. Most people secretly or openly wanted to at least make it to the single digits.

That dream hadn’t seemed so far away to Henry, that cold November day sitting on the inspection line. Hats went by. Comments were made. A few hats earlier he’d even found a defect, always a welcome break in the monotony. Then this hat came down the line.

It looked like every other hat, black bowler, nothing exciting.

It looked like every other one, until it spoke to him, told him to kill.