“There are plenty of bad ones though,” Carrie says. “Better to be shot. Better to be killed in a plane crash. You don’t want to be sick or poisoned. You don’t want to linger and lose your functionality. Imagine brain damage. Or being old and that’s the worst offender and biggest enemy and what I intend to defeat.”

“You mean with your stupid creams that have copper in them?”

“Someday you’ll think back on this moment and wish you’d done everything differently. I mean absolutely everything.” Her stare is unwavering. She doesn’t blink. “Very nice of you to do the laundry. Was it busy?”

“I had to wait forever for a dryer. I hate sharing.” Lucy is in a withdrawn leaden mood, and she won’t look at her.

“My, my how entitled we are. You should hear yourself. Have we forgotten that you’re the only elitist on this floor who doesn’t have a roommate or share a bathroom?”

“Shut up, Carrie.”

“You’re nineteen, Lucy.”

“Shut the hell up.”

“You’re a child. You shouldn’t even be here.”

“I want the MP5K back. Where is it?”

“It’s safe.”

“It’s not yours.”

“It’s not yours either. We’re so much alike. Are you aware of that?”

“We aren’t anything alike.” Lucy puts away clothes, yanking open drawers and slamming them shut.

“But we’re exactly alike,” Carrie says. “We’re different sides of the same ice cube.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

Carrie pulls her tank top, her sports bra off over her head, and half-naked she faces Lucy. “I don’t believe what you said. You didn’t mean it. You love me. You can’t live without me. I know you didn’t mean it.”

Lucy stares at her, then shoves shut another drawer while Carrie leaves her sweaty clothing on the floor where it fell. I notice there’s no visible line of demarcation on her exposed flesh, no variations in pigmentation. Her breasts, belly, her back and neck, all of her is the same opaque milky white.

“It’s not like Benton won’t eventually figure out it’s missing,” Lucy says. “Where the hell is it? This isn’t funny. Just give it back and leave me alone.”

“I can’t wait to restore it to its proper condition and do some test fires when it’s all packed up in its fancy briefcase. Just imagine it? You’re standing on a busy sidewalk holding your briefcase as the motorcade goes by.”

“Whose motorcade?” Lucy stares at her.

“There are so many choices.”

“You’re sicker than I ever imagined.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Carrie retrieves the St. Pauli Girl from the desk and takes a swallow of it inches from Lucy’s face. “I know you didn’t mean what you said earlier.” She leans against her drinking the beer, sliding a hand under Lucy’s shirt.