Tanya died the first, in the seventies. My home that, at that point, was nothing but an Escher-escue collection of ladders with Australian backpack CCTV cameras hanging from the walls, was below their flat. First death — seventies, then eighty-four, the ninety-one, and then yesterday. All that time, without any way of exiting the apartment, they marinated in corpse juice.

It finally started dripping from the ceiling yesterday.

Steel tapes weren't a good remedy.