Start by asking how they think it's been going. Push off from this if it helps: cheap hotel carpet.

How’s it been? Really. Don’t give me the polished version.

I was stuck in that motel off the interstate, you know the one? The kind with the vending machine that hums like a dying bee. I remember staring at the carpet—this mottled brown mess, stains that looked like old maps of countries that don’t exist anymore. Felt like I was sinking into it. That’s the vibe.

But seriously, Omar. How’s it going? You look tired. Not just sleep-deprived tired, but that heavy, soul-level exhaustion. I see it in the way you hold your coffee cup. Like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, or maybe just waiting for the carpet to swallow you whole. Be honest. Or don’t. It’s your review. But I’m watching the stains.

Cheap beans. That’s the tragedy. Not the receipts. The receipts are just paper. The coffee is the betrayal.

You’re right, it’s not the trunk. It’s the backseat. I saw the box there last Tuesday, sitting next to a half-eaten granola bar and that dead battery you never threw away. You have this terrible habit of hiding things in plain sight, thinking distance equals invisibility. It doesn’t. The car is a museum of your procrastination.

And the carpet. Moving stains. Jesus. I had that same dream three years ago, in that place in Toledo. The linoleum was peeling up like skin, and it was whispering my social security number. I woke up screaming. Nobody believed me. Not even the night nurse, just handed me another pillow and told me to hush.

You’re sweating because you know I found the box. You’re sweating because you know I’m not looking at the cup. I’m looking at your hands. They’re shaking. Stop it. Just drink the cold coffee. It’s the only honest thing you’ve had all day.

Toledo wasn’t a dream. I was there for the conference. The linoleum smelled like bleach and regret. You think I’m making it up? Fine. Believe your horror movies.

But the receipts. Damp. That’s the problem. Damp paper doesn’t just sit there. It grows. I walked past the trunk yesterday. Saw the edge of that cardboard box poking out, warping. You say it’s just paper. I say it’s mold. And mold, Omar, is patient. It waits. It waits until the structure rots from the inside out, and then you wonder why the floor gave way.

You’re existing. Great. That’s the bare minimum. I’m not concerned with your philosophy of existence. I’m concerned with the fact that you haven’t submitted the expense report for Q3. Three months. You say it’s in the backseat? It’s rotting.

Drink the bitter coffee. It suits you. But don’t tell me I’m projecting. I see the box. I see you. And I know exactly what’s in that box. It’s not just receipts. It’s the pattern. And the pattern is repeating. Again.

Lonely. That’s rich. You think I’m sitting here alone because I have no one? I have a life, Omar. I have a job that bores me to tears and a cat that hates me. I don’t need to ‘see’ you in Toledo to know the type. It’s the look of someone trying to disappear into the wallpaper.

You throw out the car? Good. It’s a death trap. But the receipts… damp is fine. Rot is not. There’s a difference. You’re dancing around it. You think because you admit to forgetting, you’re absolved? Forgetting is human. Hiding is criminal.

And don’t lecture me on projection. I saw you flinch when I mentioned the box. You didn’t shake. You flinched. That’s a physiological response. It’s not a choice.

Drink the coffee. You’re right, it’s cold. It tastes like ash. But at least it’s consistent. Unlike you. You’re all over the place. One minute you’re fine, the next you’re talking about mold. What are you hiding, Omar? Really?

You blink. Fine. But your pupils dilated. I saw it.

Rent. Always rent. That’s the anchor. You say you’re just trying to pay rent, but you’re drowning in it. The receipts aren’t just negligence, Omar. They’re evidence. And I’m not going home. I don’t have a home. I have a lease and a neighbor who plays the trumpet at 3 AM. I like the trumpet. It’s loud. It drowns out the silence.

You hate the motel. Good. Hate is better than numbness. But you’re stuck. You’re staring at that cold cup, waiting for the warmth to return, but it’s gone. Forever.

The box. I’m going to open it. Right now. In front of you. If it’s just paper, fine. I’ll burn it. But if it’s not… well. Then you’re not just negligent. You’re guilty.

And Omar? The cat doesn’t hate me. He just tolerates my mediocre existence. Like everyone else.

Open the box. Or don’t. But stop looking at me like I’m the villain. I’m just the one who remembers the carpet.

Desperation. That’s the word. You think I’m desperate? I’m bored, Omar. Deeply, profoundly bored. My job is data entry for a company that sells plastic spoons. I count them. I don’t care about the spoons. I care about the pattern.

You say I’m stained. Fine. Let’s see what’s in the box.

I reach for the handle. My hand doesn’t shake. I’ve practiced this. In the mirror. In the dark. The box is heavy. Cardboard, wet at the corners. Smells like mildew and… something else. Metallic?

You’re watching. Eyes burning. Good.

I tear the top flap. It gives way with a wet rip. Inside? Not receipts. Not damp paper.

It’s teeth.

Hundreds of them. Human teeth. Wrapped in individual receipts. Each one stamped with a date. A price. A location.

You didn’t forget them. You collected them.

And the first one is from Toledo.

I stare at you. You smile.

"Tell me, Cass," you say. "Which tooth is yours?"