I look around the studio. It’s a mess. All my stuff is strewn about and, in the sink, in the spot where the duck had lain, a brown-black stain has formed that starts inside the bowl and then goes up and over the edge as the duck’s neck and head had done. The smell still lingers in the air, although I don’t mind it too much. I have a look at the stain and I notice the bodies of a few maggots here and there, and a couple still moving. I sigh. The fake plant Ben got me is probably the only nice thing in the room.

I decide to tidy up. I want to be disgusted by the things humans would be disgusted by; I want to be disgusted by the dirty floors and the lack of order in here, and the clothes all over the place, and the paints all out and leaking on the floor and tabletop, and the dust left behind by whoever had the studio before me that I didn’t bother to clean up when I arrived, and the box of blood and Ben’s towel, and the leftover gunk from the duck; I want to be disgusted by myself—by my body that I haven’t washed in days, my face that I haven’t cleaned since before the night at The Place when Pig had licked it, and my nails that still have the glue from the labels I had to clean off wine bottles at the Otter under them, and bits of dirt. There’s still sand in my hair that came from the duck’s body when I bit into it, and probably blood too.

I find cleaning products under the sink: there’s a hand towel, microfiber cloths, sponges, surface cleaner, bathroom cleaner, bleach, a scourer, a bucket, a dustpan and brush. I use it all, going over the floors with a sponge and bleach, with all my stuff shoved up on top of the table, scrubbing at the stain in the sink, wiping down the mirror, the walls, then the tabletop after I’ve laid everything out neatly—my bed in the corner, looking kind of cozy and welcoming despite the fact that my bedding is also my clothing. I take out the box of dried pig blood and Ben’s old towel, and shove them as far as they’ll go into one of the big bins in the factory’s bin storage. I want to not think about them; I want to never think about drinking blood again. I find some nails and hammer a few of them into the wall for some of my clothes to hang from. I find and wash an old ceramic dish, too, that looks like a pet bowl, and that has large lettering on the side that spells out “AMOS,” and put my paints in it, and then I do the same with a cup for my paintbrushes and pens. I make everything perpendicular on the table. And then I take the hand towel and Yaga and I go upstairs—right up to the seventh floor, staggering as I go, clutching on to the banister—and find the showers.