After fiddling with the colored wires, taking apart the chair the man had died in, and scarfing down the rest of the orange bread she found, Aino locked herself in the bathroom. Eien heard water flowing and the slapping of bare feet on the floor.

Eien kept himself busy searching the apartment. The kitchen was first.

It was on the right side of the apartment, open to the rest of the main room. A stove was in the middle with two cabinets below and two cabinets above on either side. To the far left was the cold food keeper. A sink was on the right, complete with a dirty plate and set of utensils, and a glass set upright. It was not particularly dirty, but it was not particularly clean either.

Some of the food had rotted in the cold food keeper, covered in black and green mold. Vegetables, unusual to him, lay flaccid, yellow, and crinkled. Were they supposed to be like that? Cans and jars with strange pictures of happy people, cartoonish and large eyed filled one of the cabinets. Inside were varieties of produce in dull colors of purple, orange, and green. Opening up a jar with a ‘pop,’ he smelled the pickle-like aroma. Better than troll. Another cabinet was filled with the orange bread in bags. Was this man stocking up for something? Eien tasted a bit of it, pulling a piece off of a loaf. Bland, but still better than troll. The rest of the cabinets had cookware, utensils, dishes, glasses, and other things.

There was something unusual under the sink, though.

It was a wide tube jutting out from the floor with a cap over it. Eien opened the cap and heard a strange whooshing sound. He dropped some of the bread down, and it got sucked into the void, disappearing. He threw down a rotten piece of fruit from the fridge. It disappeared with a slick thump. Eien then took a fork and tossed it in. Whoosh.

It was some kind of disposal system. It made him wonder why Aino used the toilet to flush the man down when there was this thing here that could do the job better since it could fit much larger things than the toilet.

The living room was a disaster. Aino had disemboweled most of the small appliances. She had half taken apart the chair; its top half had the stuffing ripped out of it and scattered across the floor. The bottom part was flipped upside down; its wheels were removed and lying on the floor like broken, torn off limbs. He set the chair right side up, collecting the fluff from the floor and shoving it in a corner. Maybe it would be useful later.

Before the bathroom at the end of the hall was a door to a room on the right. He pushed it open, but something was blocking it. He shoved it then, hearing a scraping noise against the floor. It was a bedroom for a single man: a desk, a chair, a bed, a closet, a dresser. Everything was the same wood color, the same edges, and the same uniform rectangles that looked more modular than creative. The floor was covered in clothing, dirty, clean, and otherwise. His desk was littered with thin papers, short papers, long papers, and random boxes of food half emptied. One spilled beside the bed, the contents avalanched from the bed. Behind the door was a pile of blankets. It smelled of human, sweat, and must.

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Eien started to pull them off, one at a time, discarding them to the bed when he saw what made the scratching noise.

It was a green stone statue, about half of his height, of a woman, naked, screaming in some kind of fury, her hands angled strangely above her head like she was knocked to the ground amid a fit of rage. Her lower half was twisted up, her legs angled out like she was squatting cross legged. Her hair was straight up, like she was falling and the wind was blowing her back. Eien covered her back up with a blanket.

He sat down on the chair, feeling the coolness of the fabric hit his skin. He looked at the papers on the desk.

Some of the papers were smeared with something brown beyond readability. Others were receipts of some kind for payments. There were bills, math scratchings, and random notes about “poor results,” “Call Susie,” and “pick up more DMR.” His name was written down multiple times: Ford Sorensen. Ford Sorenson. Ford SORENSON. FORD SORENSON.

Eien shoved himself away from the desk, squeaking the chair against the floor.

He sifted through the dresser and the closet, finding nothing but clothing and sentimental items: a well-loved stuffed bear, a few unfamiliar medals, a packet full of strange, formless scratchings in pencil and ink.

He then checked in more unusual spots: under the bed, under the mattress, in corners, under the desk. Nothing else was found. Satisfied with his search, Eien started to clean.

It was about two hours before Aino exited the bathroom, steam trailing out behind her as she strode into the main room. Eien stared at her.

Black. Her hair was black. She wore the same clothes, but her skin was clean, fair, and her hair was black like night, shiny, dry, and pulled back in a ponytail. Her bare feet pattered against the floor as she crossed to the kitchen and pulled out another loaf of orange bread.

Eien averted his eyes and focused on piling up blankets in the middle of the room where the chair had been and now was pushed aside.

Aino stood and stared at him, chewing on the bread in her hand, the bag torn open and awkwardly dangling in the other. She swallowed.

“You cleaned.”

“Yeah. I looked around a bit, but I didn’t find much. There’s something in the bedroom in the corner behind the door.” Aino stared at him.

Eien started moving again, patting out a nice sleeping space for him. Aino disappeared into the bedroom.

Her feet stopped pattering.

And Eien heard a sound. What kind of sound was that? It was like a high whine, ringing in his ears.

“Ai?” he asked, leaping to his feet. She was standing still, an intense look on her face, staring at the statue in the corner of the room. He had not seen her make that kind of expression before. The whining sound was louder, ear piercings, and he instinctively covered his ears.

“Aino, stop,” he said loudly, grabbing her arm. She seemed to snap back to him, her face schooled into calm disinterest. The noise stopped.

“It’s her,” Aino replied, shaking him off of her, “It’s Nijole.”