My envelope had arrived alongside that month’s bills and the latest viewing guide, which my sister Cathy’s son Charlie, who was just shy of four, immediately pulled off the table, toddled away with and began ripping into shreds. Mum’s envelope had been purple, deep like eggplant, but that had arrived a few years previous, so I remember thinking that the design must’ve changed since then. I recall the pale-green hue of my envelope, how the slight texture of it gave the impression of a leaf. Not the velvety kind like those of the VitaPhyta evergreens, but the mildly rippled kind wearied by autumn wind, serving contrast to the smooth gloss of the rest of the mail.

I checked the bills first, though I knew exactly how much they would be, as it had been the same for everyone since 2140. Once, when Cathy and I were kids, mum showed us a photograph of her and her mother in front of the VitaPhyta Town Hall, the day the bill was enacted. Mum was a cherub-like toddler (the way all children in photos are) cradled in her mother’s arms, and both were smiling straight to the camera, eyes creasing with delight, frozen in their elation. The building looked much the same now as it did then, with its stark white columns, floor-to-ceiling windows and an expansive porch in front, where I’m sure the Grand Arbor plot still stands, reserved for the returns of past presidents.