The air is lighter than before—instead of an infinite black ceiling, the sky is lined with yellows and reds, a color like blue but much more somber. She wants to hold her gaze, stare at the shifting sky with feathers of color that swim in swirls, but the street is bare and she doesn’t want to waste time in case the creatures decide to come out from hiding. She hurries from the doorstep, remembering the alley cluttered with trash she found herself in before.

She is sure the creatures have not returned. She remembers the fear in their voices.

She walks faster and faster, each footstep landing harder and harder, until suddenly she is sprinting, trying to get rid of something on her back. Something tickling her spine and prickling her skin. Something following her.

She sprints until the alleyway comes into view and then sprints faster, not stopping until she is well inside of it. Once she feels untouched, once the static on her spine settles, she stops and turns around, gawking at the entrance of the alleyway. At that stone mouth gradually filling with light.

But nothing appears.

She lets out a sigh of relief.

Along the wall of the alley are stacks of bags and metallic bins overflowing with unwanted waste. Judging by the smell, everything rots here as well. A fitting home. She scans the different containers, looking for the perfect one. One that would house her creature with proper care and discretion. One she can trust to absorb the evidence so it never comes back to haunt her.

A single bin stands out—a dirty green plastic filled to the brim with crumpled papers that sprout out in jutting spikes. As she steps up to it, she realizes they’re sticks. Sticks that have been shoved around the rim, spearing garbage on their way down. She tosses the sack on top of the trash and stares at the sticks in fascination, grazing her fingertips across the rough edges, feeling the ridges bite.

“They’ll beat down on you . . .”

She pulls away, averting her gaze, and shovels through the trash, trying to bury the sack as deep inside the bin as she can. She digs, struggling to keep her eyes off the sticks. The sticks that poke out like bars to a cage.

“They’ll beat down on you . . .”

She unknots the sack and sprinkles the body parts down the tunnel of waste she’s just carved out. They roll off the blanket and plop into the bin, each with a wet squish. The black metal with the violent barrel rolls off and sinks with an ominous thud, and the lollipop stems follow in a staccato clatter. Wrapping her hand in the blanket, she punches into the garbage, compressing the damage, covering it up with more papers, and compressing again until it is a compact secret.