I join two more pieces of the firm cardboard.

“It’s a colony. A colony that began from a single tree.”

“Isn’t it a forest?”

Hilbert finds two pieces he likes and tries fitting them together.

“They, each one, share the same genetic markers. It’s a single root system.”

“What does that mean?”

He’s trying to force them. They clearly don’t fit.

“It’s okay,” I say. “Here.”

I take one of the pieces from him and offer an alternative. He slips it in place, then looks up at me.

“They’re all connected by their root system,” he says. “I think she has plans for us.”

“Shelley?”

I reach over and touch his leg. He rests his hand on mine, squeezing it softly.

Hilbert didn’t want to finish the puzzle. Neither did I. He wasn’t feeling well. He wanted to go to bed, so we said good night, and I left him to sleep. I’m back in my room, but I don’t feel like crawling into bed. Was it only two nights ago that I saw Jack in the kitchen, that I felt so terribly sick? I look at the framed photo on my dresser, facing away from me, toward the window. I didn’t want to feel him looking at me.

All of a sudden, a metallic taste fills my mouth. I look down and see I’m biting my thumbnail. I remove it from my mouth.

My nails are very long. On both my hands. The tips curl up above my fingers. How can they grow so fast? I just had them clipped for… the party. When is the party?

How long does it take nails to grow? I remember having to cut his nails the last few weeks, when he was too weak to do it. He said he thought his nails and hair might grow for a while after he died. But I told him that wasn’t true. In death, the skin retracts, which makes it look like the hair and nails are growing when they’re not.

I look at the piece of pie and cup of tea sitting on my desk from dinner. I bring a hand up to my ear and feel the noise-canceling headphones. When did I put these on? I wasn’t wearing them in Hilbert’s room. There’s no noise at all. No music. Only a deep, booming silence.

I inspect the food sitting on my dresser, sniffing it, eyeing it closely. I pick up the fork and use it to cut off a piece of the pie. The texture of the pie has changed. I mash it with the fork. It has taken on the consistency of melted cheese. I drop the fork on the floor.

I try to steady my hand, touching the piece of pie with my finger, pushing it in. I lift my finger as high as I can, and a thin strand of the pie stays connected to the fork. It feels like melted mozzarella, like the cheese I used to grate over my lasagna.