23 March 2027
Tuesday. Busy night for arithmetic.
Three mates at the gate early on, all keen. Two plots. One of them had to sit it out. They tried to talk me round. I said it’s not my rule, it’s the boxes’ rule, there are two of them and they each hold one person, and you can’t argue with a box. The staff sorted it: two went under, and the third went off to another room down the corridor that started at the same time. They all met up after and told lies about it.
Later, a fellow on his own. Wanted to know if he could do it solo. I had to tell him the whole thing only works with two. Whatever’s in one box, the other one needs; that much I’ve worked out from the shouting. He went off to find a friend. I hope he finds a good one.
Nobody gets buried next to a stranger, either. One booking, one pair. I like that. Keeps it decent.
Tally: plots disturbed, two. Pairs, two. Spare people, one, rehoused.
— H., groundskeeper
