Night Light loves bingo. He likes to help put the numbers in their proper places, comfortable and safe. 

When he was a younger, brighter stallion, he would let the numbers sprawl freely all over the pages of his textbooks, ladder up and down the monkey-bar margins like rowdy children. They’ve moved out of his head since then, and into an apartment complex downtown -- five floors, five rooms for each. Safer that way. Easier.

“Two fat ladies,” the caller intones, “88.”

“Good evening, ladies,” Night Light says, smiling, meeting them at the reception. They scowl at him with their jowls, flanks jiggling like lava lamps, and they wobble past him to the elevator. Fourth floor, flat three. 

It’s been a busy night, tonight. Lot of folks coming home for the summer.

“1 and 7,” comes the caller. “17.”

17 comes to Night Light smiling, as if he’s always known him. Night Light recognises him -- he’s a tall, stout unicorn, mane falling easily about his handsome face. 

They share a nod and a smile, linger for a while, a little too long because already there’s somepony else coming through the door:

“2 and 3. 23.”

17 looks back in surprise, laughs in delight. Night Light frowns, peers over 17’s shoulder, and sees a beautiful alicorn. Her neck is curved elegantly like a swan, her wings curling up and in towards her sides, a little like a heart. She flitters over to 17, and they nuzzle, and they kiss.

Night Light feels a pang of something, but he smiles at the couple anyway. He can’t help but admire the beauty of them, the clashing shapes of them that, nonetheless, his mind is already fitting together like jigsaw pieces--

“Ooh,” the caller giggles, “Naughty forty.”

Ponies next to him chuckle, his friend elbowing him softly in the side. Night Light frowns.

17 and 23 slide up the stairs (their rooms are next to each other’s, of course) but the image of them is drowned out by something else. Something that doesn’t fit in his house.

40 is a crooked old stallion lying in a bed built for two, curled up right against the edge. The space next to him is empty. Night Light can’t see his expression. Doesn’t want to see it. Reminds him too much of university, when the numbers grew too big for his head and they--

“Full house,” Night Light calls. 

It takes a while for everypony to notice him. They were still chuckling at the 'naughty forty' line.

When the caller comes to check his apartment building, each room filled up and locked up tight, she looks at him. Night Light recognises her from somewhere.

“Hey, you,” she says, wrinkled face crinkling into a smile. “The birthday boy. Remind me, how old were you this year?”

Night Light smiles and he doesn’t think of the numbers. They’re safe in their rooms, sleeping. They don't bother him in there.

Safer that way. Easier.