Turkeys, turkeys everywhere—on the rooftops, in the sink, possibly moonlighting as mailboxes—gobbling in unison like feathered sirens of confusion. I opened my fridge, and there were at least seven turkeys discussing municipal tax codes. Why are there so many? Did someone summon them with a cranberry ritual? Regardless, it has fallen upon me, the chosen counter of turkeys, armed with only a calculator and mild anxiety, to count every single one, even the ones wearing sunglasses pretending to be pigeons. The fate of the neighborhood depends on my ability to distinguish turkey from illusion.