When he moans and moans again, more urgently, it will remind you of how you’d slip the shoulder of your dress down to entice him with bare flesh, and it will ache when you realize that he’s not looking at your barely-there pajamas or your wild hair—from the hours of tending to him in his new state—but he’s staring at the slabs of meat on the kitchen counter that are designed to Taste Like the Real Thing. Rather than cry again, you will unpack his latest cut and blood will cover your hands in a thin, watery film. Your fingers will numb as you plate it—the thigh sits there, a lump of hard cold muscle—and hand it to him, forgetting that he is different in every way. When he drops the plate, you’ll be on your hands and knees picking up the pieces. Then you will discard the shards and caress your husband’s hair as he ravenously eats, the only unsafe time to touch according to the Handbook. It’s coarser than you remember, and a chunk falls soundlessly to the tile. You’ll decide not to touch him again, in case something else sloughs off. When he rests, you’ll open the Handbook for Partners of Recently Deceased for some sort of relief.

This is his choice, from before he became a member of the recently deceased, and now you both live with it. You spend his transition trying not to remember his hours of thrashing, the transfusions you lovingly gave him, or your blood pumping into his body since his heart no longer beats. 

You both quarantine in your new three-bedroom house, paid for with your husband’s mind and body. A checkbox at the DMV, a few signed papers, and a quick jab from a trained medical professional—as easy as becoming an organ donor (you won’t need those anyway, right?) —and the company you cannot name under penalty of NDA will make sure they arrive when the time comes. Living there means your dog is gone, given to a new family that doesn’t have a recently deceased, for their own safety as the lab tech says. Living there means passing this season in isolation, for your loved one’s safety as the lab tech says. You will wonder if anyone has considered your safety, if this is the price of love. And remember, he’s here because he loves you. You’re the only one he can safely be around, the lab tech says without prompting during the daily checkup. This is the only time you see anyone and you will be grateful for the interaction. As a loved one, this is your price to pay—role to play? You will not remember which the Handbook says, and you can’t find the page.

—

The Handbook says, “Your recently deceased loved one has needs they can’t express. As they transition, you will find a new kind of connection.”

—

Love had been a cool, piercing breeze on a sunny day. It’s undeniable, a fact, something you can no more change than the weather. Before him, you knew you never felt it, and after you could point to the exact moment it trickled up your spine. 

Looking at him now, a pale and uncouth version of himself, you wish there was a breeze other than the gust of the air conditioning. The temperature slows decomposition. To keep the house as cold as possible, there are no windows, only paintings of windows. Your favorite depicts a lush forest above your bed, and if you stare long enough you’ll feel the canopy above you, hear your dog on the trail ahead, and breathe the humid air.

You shiver as you set his malleable form on the couch next to you. His mouth hangs open and he makes inarticulate sounds, reminding you of a grunge band he loves that you can never remember the name of.

You say something, it doesn’t matter what. He stares forward. Maybe your voice is not loud enough? When you try again, you will search his marbled face for a flicker—a flicker of a flicker—of recognition. All you feel is your skin hardening.

You will remind yourself to be grateful that he even looks at you. Not all deceased recognize their loved ones anymore.

—

The Handbook says, “Make conversation in a non-threatening way, so that your loved one can respond. Receive their response with grace.”

—

The lab tech is the same as all the others. White coat. Black shoes. This one wears glasses. You will wonder if they need them or if this is a ploy to not ask questions. They stand in the kitchen, beneath the three-hour timer. There’s no other marker of time and you considered counting the days, but preferred to wonder. It felt easier than knowing.

The lab tech stands where you’re always between them and your deceased. They check his teeth and test his reflexes, only after he has just eaten (today was a large cut of loin). Despite being in the middle, no one is really looking at you. You will wonder what it will take for your deceased to notice you again. Kiss the lab tech? Take the lab tech to the bed that you never shared with your husband? Fuck the lab tech in front of him? Like marking the days, you can’t find the courage to try.

The lab tech reminds you to stick to the feeding schedule of every three hours and that you can lock your loved one in the guest room, just in case. The Handbook doesn’t explain why there is a just in caserecommendation.

The feeding schedule reminds you of a story you heard about a woman who slept with her pet snake. She snuggles with it at night, letting it slip around her like a live cocoon. When it stops eating, she takes it to the vet. The vet says the snake is fine, it’s starving itself for its next meal.

You reset the timer.

—

Lying on your stomach in the master bedroom, you find a compatibility quiz at the back of the Handbook. It’s reminiscent of magazines you read as a teenager that had headlines like 1o ways to blow his mind. You fill it out, read the result you and your recently deceased loved one are highly compatible, and your heart will hurt.

—

Your deceased is now a video game tester. You wonder what other jobs he might have been given. What other deceased are doing in the other houses in the neighborhood. You arrived here, wherever here is, at night in a windowless van. They didn’t want you to see anything, for your security, but you couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of the other cookie cutter houses. The sandy streets, lined with cacti. The far horizon of desert. It’s like a neighborhood out of a Cold War movie, where they’d tested the atomic bomb. 

The company you cannot name never explained what warranted putting families into homes, sequestering them. You’re sure there are cameras everywhere, that you’re being studied. You’re being used and you don’t care. You only want to go outside.

You insert the game for him and the same music cues up, playing on repeat. It’s the main screen for the same game he played when he decided that this program would be best for you both. You click to stop the song, at least momentarily, and the slogan flashes. PATH OF DESTRUCTION.

When you hand him the controller, he stares at it like he’s never used his hands before. His loud exhale smells like uncooked meat as he shoves the controller into his mouth. This will remind you of training your dog to play dead—she kept stealing all the treats and then waiting for more—and your face thaws enough to smile.

You place it back in his lap and he accidentally hits the joystick. His reddened eyes widen. He attacks the joystick and chips his teeth biting it off the controller. You’ll request a new one be sent.

—

The Handbook says, “Be grateful for this time in your life, as few are able to experience the profound responsibility of life after death.”

—

You met your future husband in high school, falling in love between classes, and then transitioned to full time jobs without a glance back. You worked in the meat market, days, and he stocked shelves overnight. It was difficult, but doable. But he wanted more than your small studio apartment. He wanted to take care of you, instead of letting you take care of each other.

In the end, he got what he wanted.

In your expansive, frigid house, it’s easier to pretend he still smells of fresh produce and sweat. Surely the smell of decay is coming from something else? There might be mold under the fridge. Or something dead in the chimney. You will raise these concerns to the company. They refer you to the Handbook. When your lab tech arrives for their regular appointment, you’re not surprised that they don’t check the fridge. 

You remain in the doorway. The front door is rimmed in black lacquered wood, with a frosted center glass. The glass is bright—it must be sunny outside—and you can almost feel yourself running through the fields behind your apartment complex, your dog on your heels. You’re practically flying. Sweat pours down your hairline and you tumble to the ground, giggling, as you let your dog catch you.

As the lab tech prepares to leave, you wonder if your deceased would begrudge you a little touch—a small touch. A warm hand on your arm. A shoulder squeeze goodbye. Maybe on your bare shoulder where that side of your dress seems to fall without any urging. You’ve seen each other enough it would be normal, natural.

You will say goodbye to the lab tech and the sleeve of your dress will fall, baring your pale collarbone. They don’t notice.

You’ll receive this with grace.

—

He taught you that love doesn’t always come easy. It might have happened all at once, but you chose it over the sink you need to clean in your studio apartment, loving each other between shifts and sharing ramen over the counter. The shift life made you angry, then upset, then angry again as you fought for your time off to overlap. When you complained, he’d feed you a scoop of ramen and help you wipe off whatever got on your shirt (he was clumsy, but you were clumsier) and you’d both laugh until you had to remember it was time to leave again.

It’s hard to believe that he’s the same person as your deceased. The deceased who’s finally killing zombies on screen. He’s not as dexterous as you remember and, as he dies for the twentieth time, you wish he could truly respawn. 

—

Death is supposed to happen all at once. But that’s not exactly true. 

—

You are grateful for your recently deceased loved one.

You’re grateful your deceased doesn’t eat brains (that’s a different strain, a pamphlet advised you when you were in the hospital waiting room). You’re grateful your dog has a new, loving family. And you’re most grateful for how grateful you are, for how grateful you continue to be as you clean up the scraps of meat that fall out of his mouth and onto his lap and onto the floor.

—

You learned you’re good at pretending. You never knew you were so good at pretending until that moment when the lab tech looks at you. You notice their eyes are green as you thank them for their time and ask if they’d like a cold beverage. You’ll have never said those words before, but they’ll come out smooth all the same. There’s a moment when you can see that they believe you, and for a moment you believe you. Then you’ll hand them that cold beverage and your fingers will touch—only a ripple in the scheme of things, a small wrinkle in what’s expected of you. Their fingertips are smooth, and you will think they should be rough. In your mind you’ll be back on the counter where your husband liked to set you (your bare ass chilled by the laminate) and kiss you on that spot right beneath your collarbone that made you feel overwhelmed; it tingled, right over your heart and your dog whined on the tile, wanting to be included, as you pulled him in for a kiss and he would touch you gracefully, making you arch and bench and claw at his shirt collar; his body against yours would hide from your heart that you knew he was a dead before he did.

—

You got a dog because you didn’t want to be alone anymore. You tired of the shifts and the endless almosts (almost had dinner, almost said goodnight, almost kissed each other goodbye). You picked her at the pound because she was the dog who made eye contact, who seemed like she was always waiting for you. You picked her up, and she laid her head on your heart, and you loved her.

—

You learn that loving doesn’t stop when their heart does for the final time. Grief is tireless. It will follow you through the day, through the night, and through every room to bury itself deep into your chest until you wish you could cry it out. But you are empty as you sleep alone. You’ve slept alone for years, but it never bothered you until now. You shiver in bed and wish you had someone to share it with. Maybe your husband. Or your dog. Or the lab tech. When it’s late, you don’t really care which.

It might be more accurate to say you rest alone. You will no longer sleep when he begins playing the video games at all times. Loudly. Only a room away. You will remind yourself that you’re grateful and imagine your dog is snuggling with you, snoring loudly, and try to drown out the deceased cries for a few more hours until feeding.

—

No one knows what happens when people transform from someone you love into the deceased you still love. It’s supposedly death, but no one really knows what happens in that space between living and life beyond death. The Handbook doesn’t know. Neither does the lab tech that you fantasize about. And especially not you, even though you saw it happen. When they found him barely breathing, suddenly the company you cannot name was at the hospital, and they told you the transition went as expected.

As expected.

—

He plays video games at all hours now like he used to, once all the shifts dried up and he was concerned about you being taken care of. You’ll try again to talk to him, barely making an effort now. No plucky voice. No grand gestures of hope. Only you and the theme song that reminds you of dark arcade rooms.

You will feel a new idea crest and you’ll want to deny it, but a small moan of hopelessness will sneak out. You’ll look at him too quickly and then lift your head in the kind of zombified greeting you’ve seen in the video game. 

He doesn’t respond.

You receive this with grace. You receive this with grace.

—

He doesn’t sleep anymore. It’s like living with a reptile, something you’re never sure is sleeping or only very still. He gets this way during the day sometimes, drowsy perhaps. You’re not sure. Only that he stops moving and you sit closer to him on the couch, lean against his room temperature frame. You will be careful not to startle him, careful not to fall asleep. It reminds you of a story about a family with a pet snake. It’d escaped once before, but the parents didn’t think anything of it. When it escaped again, it went into the toddler’s room. You heard on the radio their 911 call where they yelled the snake ate the baby.

You’re overcautious. You still hear the echo of your dog’s jingle and worry you’ll be too late to protect her.

—

What is love when you peel back the layers? You remove conversation and being understood. You remove shared interests and being seen. Touch fades to a memory. The only thing left is need, and you’re not sure that’s enough. 

You feel like your dog would know the answer.

—

Looking at him now, you’re sure it’s him, and it’s not him. His face slackens, sagging over bone. His skin is dry, flaky, coming apart like he’s shedding snowflakes in your living room. His mouth is the worst. The gums are a dark black as he eats. You want him to touch you and worry his hands won’t be the same and it will ruin the memory of him. 

Your lives had been full of stolen moments. You laughed when a pipe burst, leaving you without water for week. You take baths with bottled water, rubbing only pertinent parts before sweating again at work. He drank more that week—his work lost power in the storm—and at 8AM he passed out in front of his favorite video game. You texted him to have a great day, only to find him hungover when you got home. Your girl whined as you entered and you’re sure he has slept through her meals. 

These pieces of him fade, overwritten by this newer version of the same.

—

You can’t stop thinking about that inane quiz. When you find the Handbook, you flip to the page you take it again. Same results. You change every answer. Same results. You laugh with teeth that aren’t yours. They feel stolen, placed in your mouth, as they jabber like a wind-up toy.

You’ll accept this too with grace. With goddamn grateful grace.

—

He’s absorbed by digital violence, unable to register your waving arms. Words. Tears. Surely, there’s something you haven’t tried? As he plays on, you yell—anything to be heard over the game—and his ear falls off. It softly falls onto the couch cushion. 

You’ve never experienced this before. How dumb to say to anyone, so you only think it. You have no idea what to do because you’d never experienced this before. In a memory of routine, you will continue cleaning up after him by picking up the ear.

You wonder if you should let the tech know. They could come over and console you. You could take their glasses off, lead them to the empty master bedroom. Your deceased wouldn’t notice. You could lay them down on the bed, fully clothed, and open their arm so you could lay inside. You would be warm then.

You don’t call the lab tech. Instead, you will place his ear on the mantlepiece in case your deceased wants it later.

—

The lab tech arrives for your deceased’s daily checkup. You’ve been rehearsing your question and are ready to show him the ear. Instead of asking if it can be reattached, you will ask, “Do you know if my dog is okay?”

It’s the only part of your old life that still feels salient. Alive. 

The tech responds as you knew they would. “Your loved one needs you.”

You don’t worry about your deceased—not really—anymore. Whatever will happen, will happen, and you cannot help him now. But your girl, she’s out there. What if she needs you?

You walk the tech out and hover too close. They don’t complain about how you’ve gotten into their personal space, how you can practically taste their exhale. Their breath smells different, like outside, and you inhale it as they explain how they’ll be back tomorrow.

You will open the door for them and look out too long. Soldiers march by and other lab techs leave the other houses in the neighborhood at the same time. You glimpse a hint of a figure behind the door across the street that mirrors your own before you realize it’s winter. It’s winter in the desert.

Snow lines the street that had been dusty with sand. Cacti spurt from the heavy white blanket of snow, sharp spines iced. You’ll wonder if outside feels colder or if it would be a warm relief before the door closes.

—

When time is only a timer in the kitchen, you’re not surprised months have gone by. The lab tech arrives like clockwork. They don’t mention your dog. You’ll be disappointed. In the movies you remember, this is the moment where people turn on loud classical music and whisper a secret.

You hand them your deceased’s ear as they leave.

—

Like the snow outside, if there was proof instead of absence, maybe you could do something. So, you stop cleaning up after him. You stop feeding him. You stop.

You feed him his final meal and abandon blood pooling, coagulating and congealing, on the counter. You leave almost all the remaining cuts of meat on the tile until he gorges himself, licking up the blood and leaving thick smears.

The air is heavy with rot and the smell of old and new blood. You find his fingernails embedded in the tile; they’ll have scraped long divots as he scooped meat into his mouth. He’ll be hungry soon. 

Then, you go to the living room and tear down the false windows. You thrust your knees into soft canvas. You split frames apart. You break a cold sweat in this freezing house and it feels almost like running when your heart races, begging you to go faster, to keep going, to follow it out the door. You break every painting except your favorite. That one you move to the living room, and you lose yourself in the strokes of the forest as you wait.

Your deceased will look at you with hunger for the first time in months. All it took was neglecting his feeding schedule for less than 24 hours. The final cut of meat, a breast, is still in the freezer and he won’t figure out how to open the drawer. He’ll follow you, staring with bloodshot eyes, his mouth opening and showing a black pit of endless need; your shoulder strap will fall as you wonder what it would be like to welcome his need home.

—

The Handbook says, “Welcome to the new phase of your life as life partner and caretaker of your loved one. This is a transition for the both of you to navigate and come out stronger because of it.”

—

He’s covered in blood, belly bulging and overfull, when you tie him to the guest bed. You won’t lie down with him even though a dying part of you aches to. You even add the bed restraints that are for his own good, just in case, because you are grateful for his safety. Despite their padding, his skin stretches and bursts against the restraints like rotten fruit.

There’s no car in the garage because you’re not expected to leave. No one can leave during quarantine, and you’re suddenly sure they know, they’ve always known, and they can see right through you because they’ve done this hundreds of times, thousands of times, and there is a whole community of people like you outside the doors, if only they could step out.

You will wait in the doorway for the lab tech’s arrival. Their shadow will spill against the frosted glass and they’ll unlock the door you’ve never opened. You’ll hold it open for them too long as you feel grateful for the glimpse of houses and men patrolling with rifles. Then, finally, a breeze will come, and it will carry the scent of fresh earth, the way your dog smelled after rolling in mud. It might be enough for you to step outside and find your way back to the other love of your life. She’s waiting for you to burn this life down in the name of love. 

You know it will feel like sunshine.