100-Word Fiction: ‘The Problem With Statistics’

I’m not sure if I can remember the exact amount. Bear with me. Was it 997, or 979, or 977, or 799, or 797, or 779, or maybe even 759? This number. It was hundreds. There were sevens and nines in it, definitely. Hundreds. Sevens of hundreds, I think, if I remember. Did you not see? It was in the news. How quick these things pass us by. Numbers. Released while we were hoisting the flags and choosing our party frocks. Numbers of people, schoolchildren and pensioners, the mentally ill, illegally imprisoned, dressed in orange. Does the exact number matter?