These individuals (he says, indicating we Speakers, we Singers) are not animals, not toys, not playthings. How would Company like it? If they, or their spouse, or one of their children, or one of their parents had his or her memory eradicated via the Morley Procedure (or Morley II, for Singers) and thereby lost all awareness of who they were, how they had lived, what they had valued, whom they had loved, and woke to find themselves mounted on some stranger’s Speaking Wall, compelled to perform like a trained beast for the cheap amusement of a braying crowd?

“I’d like to respond,” says Mr. U. “But I don’t want to be shot. Is that possible?”

“Make it quick,” says the girl in yellow sneakers.

“I object to your characterization,” Mr. U. says. “No one was coerced. On the contrary, these Speakers, these Singers, they applied. And considered it a great privilege to have been accepted. And are well compensated. Money is sent—believe me, I write the checks every month—to their designees. These folks, honestly? Are like family to us. You people may not like it, but everyone here has consented to this arrangement and, if I may say so, as terrible as you may feel me to be, I have, at least, never killed anyone.”

I feel like applauding. Why are these rude individuals here, in our home, with their violence? I do not know about “compensation,” or “designees,” or any of that but feel proud of Mr. U.’s courage, and confident that his eloquence will save the day.

The intruders appear unmoved.

“Enough,” the leader says. “Enough predictable reactionary blather.”

“It’s not exactly ‘volunteering’ if you’re driven to it by hardship,” says the girl in yellow sneakers.

Taking out a notebook, she steps over to Craig.

“Hector,” she says. “Wife: Danielle. No kids. Unemployed for seven years. Three poodles: Rudy, Phipps, Esmerelda II.”

Then steps over to Lauren.

“Cindy,” she says. “A nurse with an unfortunate addiction issue. Also, a kid. A baby. Stuart.”

Lauren looks, at first, blank. Then emits a startled nose-snort, as if her bell has been rung.

Company is to proceed to the back of the room, the leader says. No heroics, please, no drama.

To comply, those in the first few rows must step over the two portly corpses. An old man stops to help the old woman (not nearly as old as him) to her feet. Her young hair, a wig, is left behind, where she fell.

Before heading to the basement, the girl in yellow sneakers says, there is something they are going to be asked to witness. For their edification. To encourage them to change their ways. And aid them in seeing the light.

Adult son Mike does not look well. He looks like someone who was perhaps not fully informed, when helping facilitate this, that, for example, two portly men would be shot dead and an elderly woman shoved to the ground so roughly that her young hair would fly off.