Lettie just stares at me. So I give her the best fact. “And the smallest rooms.” She doesn’t move. “So they’ll be the quickest.”

“Yep. I got that.”

“Well?” I lift up the bucket and wave it.

“Look, I don’t think—”

But I’m not listening. I push past her into the dark.

I trip over almost immediately. The smell’s a living thing, pushing its way up my nostrils and into my mouth, making my eyes water. It’s decay and filth and rot and the smells of living. The gloom and the stench and the lumpy things under my legs press in on me, making it hard to focus. The sliver of light from the front door starts to narrow.

“No! Leave it open.”

“You okay?”

“Yep. I just tripped over.” I haul myself to my feet, coughing, trying to keep my gaze on that crack of light from the door.

Lettie disappears into the dark. I fumble around for my bucket, trying not to imagine all the things I’m touching. Perhaps I should have brought two rolls of garbage bags.

“Here.” Lettie shoves something at me in the gloom.

“What’s that?”

“Vicks. Rub it under your nose.”

“Why?”

“It’ll help with the smell.” Her voice is gruff. So she does know it smells, then. I’m glad I can’t see her face clearly.

“Do you use it?”

“No, I’m used to it.” I stick my finger into the pot and wipe the Vicks under my nostrils. It makes them burn and my eyes water, but it helps. I stand up.

“Still want to help?” she says.

“Yep.”

“So where do we start, mastermind?”

“The hall.”

“First place first, makes sense.”

I nod, not bothering to tell her the only reason I want to start here is to be closer to the door. “We’ll start with this.” I tap the pile of papers heaped up against the wall.

HER RECYCLING BIN is full in less than twenty minutes. Or it would be, if Lettie didn’t keep going and pulling the papers back out to check she doesn’t need them. I go over to grab our recycling bin, and in the time it takes me to bring it back she’s emptied half of them back onto her porch.

“Lettie! You can’t keep doing that. We’re never going to get it done.”

She barely raises her head from what she’s doing. “I’m just checking you’re not throwing out something I need.”

“They’re old newspapers. You don’t even know what’s in them!”

“Exactly.”

I’m beginning to think this’d be quicker if she was somewhere else. I snatch a paper out of her hands and shove it back into the bin.

“They’re newspapers. There all online anyway.”

“Not these ones, they’re old.”

“Exactly! They’re old and moldy and useless. Just throw them out!”

“But what if—”