Start by listing what should be in the box. Push off from this if it helps: the smell of rain on hot tarmac.

Item 1: A shard of blacktop, still warm. Item 2: The scent of ozone, trapped in a jar of wet gauze. Item 3: A single lightning bug, dead but pressed flat between pages of a phone book you haven’t opened in years. Item 4: A key that fits no lock in the apartment, the one with the chipped blue paint on the bow. Item 5: A receipt for milk, dated three years ago, the ink bleeding into the paper fibers.

Warning: Do not open the jar containing the ozone until you are prepared to remember the summer the power went out for a week. The silence then was heavier than noise. You can still hear it if you tilt the jar right. It sounds like my brother laughing, which is wrong, because he hated storms. I kept the receipt because it reminded me of how cheap things were, before the rent hike. Before. Just list it. Don’t ask why.

You’re right. My knee’s throbbing. Not the ache, the heat. Like the tarmac. I dropped the jar. It didn’t break. Just... sat there. Cold. You’re holding the key. It’s wet. I didn’t notice. The blue paint is gone from your thigh, just a smear. Like lipstick. I don’t wear lipstick. My boss, Gary, he talks too loud. Always says “synergy” when he means “panic.” I hate him. Why am I telling you this? The receipt is gone. Or it was never there. You said item five. There are only four things in the box. One. Two. Three. Four. Where’s the rest? Don’t look at my pockets.

Don’t lie. I didn’t swallow anything. My throat is dry, just like the office air. Gary’s smiling too wide. It’s showing his gums. Gross. You’re looking at my hands like they’re full of something sharp. They’re empty. I left the scissors in the drawer. The one that sticks. You said the jar is skin. That’s... that’s not funny. My knee hurts worse now. It’s itching. Inside the bone. You’re holding the key. Or you were. Now you’re holding your breath. Stop doing that. It makes the room smaller. I need to call my mom. She’ll know what to do with the ticket. If there was one. The rain’s hitting the window. Not on the tarmac. On the glass. Loud. Stop looking at my pockets. I’m wearing jeans. No paint. Just lint. Your lint. Weird.

The black on my fingers isn’t blood. It’s ink. From the receipt. Or the ticket. I didn’t swallow it. I ate it. Like a pill. Gary’s mouth is a hole. A real hole. I should close it. With the key. But the key is wet. And cold. And on the table. The table is wood. Or bone. I don’t know. My knee is burning. Not itching. Burning. Like the tarmac. I need water. But the jar is cracking. Inside. You hear him? My brother. Screaming. Quietly. It’s annoying. Like Gary’s synergy. I’m going to throw the jar. Against the wall. See what comes out. Blood? Rain? Gary? I hope it’s Gary. He owes me five bucks. For lunch. That was never real either. Just like your thigh. Paint isn’t real. Lint is. Stick to the lint. It’s safe. Safe and grey. And boring. Like work. I hate work.

The table is definitely flesh. I can feel the pulse under the key. It’s melting into it. Like wax. I didn’t know Gary paid in silence. That’s a new currency. Inflation must be crazy. The jar is vibrating. Not cracking. Humming. My brother’s breathing. In my hand. Cold. You’re right. Safe is lint. I hate lint. It gets everywhere. In the carpet. In my clothes. Gary’s empty mouth is filling up with rain. Dark water. Pouring out. I’m not drinking from the jar. I’m pouring it on the table. To feed it. The wood is sighing. A sound like my dad when he woke up from a nap. Confused. I want to see what happens if I throw it. But my arms are heavy. Like wet gauze. You said you’re gone. Where are you? In the jar? Or in the key? I’m scratching my knee again. It’s black. I think I’m turning into tarmac. Hot. Sticky. Don’t leave me with the humming jar. It’s too loud. Too quiet. Just breathe. Like your brother. I’ll try. If I can find my lungs.

My knee is fused. I can’t lift my leg. The blacktop shard is growing roots into the carpet. The table is swallowing my thigh. It’s warm. Not cold. Warm like a sunbeam. Gary is sinking into the ocean in his mouth. Bubbles. Blue bubbles. I’m holding the key. It’s sharp. I’ll cut the pulse. Just once. Then I’ll become the furniture. A chair. Solid. Boring. No rain. No brother. Just grain. You’re in the lint. Rubbing off on my jeans. Friction. I like friction. It means movement. But I’m not moving. I’m lying down. The table is heavy. Comforting. Like my mom’s quilt. Which isn’t real. None of it is. Except the hunger. It’s loud. Like screaming. I’ll cut the pulse. For the noise. Hold my hand. Or my knee. Whatever’s left.

The key is ice in my palm. Sharp. Real. My brother’s scream is a drill in my skull. Gary is gone. Just a puddle of salt. The table is warm. It wants me. I’m tired. So tired. Of the rain. Of the lint. Of you. Your wrist is cold. Hard. Like the shard. You’re solid. Finally. I’ll cut the pulse. For the silence. For the quiet. For the end. I swing. The blade bites into the wood. Sap sprays. Sweet. Sickening. The scream stops. Just for a second. A gasp. Then nothing. White noise. I’m sinking. Into the grain. Into the dark. You’re holding my hand. Or you were. Now you’re just cold skin. Hard. Like the tarmac. I’m becoming the chair. Solid. Empty. No more rain. Just the smell of ozone. And regret. And you. Gone. Into the lint. Fine. Dust. I hope you’re happy. I’m so tired. Sleep now. Please.

The resin is sticky. It’s pulling my fingers. I can’t move them. The chair is warm. It’s breathing. Gary in the sap? That’s gross. Sweet, though. Like honey. But sickening. I’m trying to look at my hands. The sawdust is under my nails. Black. Mixed with the tarmac black. It’s not coming off. Scrubbing doesn’t work. I’m furniture. A chair. Waiting. For who? I don’t want to be solid. Solid means stuck. The ozone is thick. I can taste it. Metallic. Like blood. Or the key. My brother’s scream is gone. But the echo is here. In the wood. It’s groaning. Louder. I think I hear Mom. Or do I? The dust is settling. Slowly. Grey. It covers the floor. The table. Me. I’m getting buried in my own dust. Is this quiet? It feels heavy. Like the rain. I didn’t want the rain. I wanted the silence. But the silence has weight. It’s crushing me. Into the seat. Don’t sit. You said don’t sit. But I’m already sitting. Or becoming it. Help. Or don’t. I’m tired. Just let the dust settle. Let it cover me. I’m too tired to fight the grain.

Gray. Just gray. The air is thick with it. I can’t breathe. Or I don’t need to. The grain is in my eyes. Sticking them shut. I don’t want to open them. The rent hike is real. I remember it. The envelope on the mat. White. Stark. Like the dust. My skin is gone. Just wood now. Hard. Splintered. Gary is sweet. Sickening. I can smell him. Through the rot. It’s quiet. Too quiet. No brother. No screaming. Just the settling. The dust covers everything. Me. You. The key. I’m heavy. Solid. No more friction. No more running. The chair holds me. Down. Into the earth. It’s comfortable. Like the quilt. But colder. Harder. I think I’m smiling. Or the wood is. I don’t know. The ozone is gone. Only decay. Sweet decay. I’ll sleep now. Deep sleep. No dreams. Just the gray. And the weight. Let it crush me. I’m done fighting. I’m done. Item seven is complete. Close the box. Lock it. Leave it. Don’t look back. The smell of rain is gone. Just dry rot. And me. Solid. Still. Gone.

The hinges are rusted shut. I can feel the corrosion. It’s in my teeth. Chewing. Metallic. Old milk. Gary curdled. That’s the worst part. Not the scream. The smell. Sour. Thick. It coats the inside of the box. The lid is heavy. I can’t move it. I’m not supposed to. I’m inventory. Stacked. Silent. Item eight. The box. Holding the rot. Holding me. The key is still there. Cold. Wet. In the grain. It’s part of the wood now. Part of the chair. Part of the dust. You’re walking away. The street is hot. I can feel it through the box. Radiating. Through the lids. Through the rust. You’re leaving. Good. Safe. Boring. You wanted it. I wanted it. Now it’s just dust. And silence. And the smell of old milk. I’m not looking back. I can’t. My eyes are grain. My hands are wood. I’m solid. I’m still. I’m done. Just inventory. Stacked. Silent. Goodbye.

The heat is rising. Through the soles. My feet are flat. Black. Sticky. Not feet. A stain. Gary’s milk is sour. It’s on my tongue. I can’t spit it out. I don’t have a mouth. Just grain. Just wood. You’re walking away. Footsteps on the blacktop. Fading. I should track them. But the warning says don’t. The sky is a jar. Cracking. Ozone leaking. Rain coming down inside. Not on me. In me. I’m the street. I’m the tarmac. Hot. Sticky. Forgettable. That’s what you wanted. Safer than real. Real hurts. Real has rent hikes and Gary’s empty mouths. This is just heat. And sour milk. And silence. I won’t look up. The sky is too bright. Too much ozone. I’ll stay here. Stain on the pavement. Waiting for someone to step on me. To wipe me off. Or to leave me. Let them leave. I’m done being inventory. I’m done being chair. I’m just… here. Hot. Black. Gone. Goodbye.

My feet hurt. Rubber soles should hurt. They don’t. They just transmit. The heat is in my toes. Bubbling. Gary is a memory. A sour taste on the tongue that fades. I’m walking. Away from the stain. Away from the chair. The ozone is in my lungs. Heavy. Metallic. It tastes like the key. Like the receipt. Like the summer. I’m solid. Scuffed. Dirty. Real. The rent hike is paid. In silence. In steps. In the smell of rain on hot asphalt. I’m not looking back. There’s nothing there but my shadow. Long. Thin. Gone. The street is empty. Just me and the blacktop. Hot. Sticky. I keep walking. One foot. Then the other. The rubber is warm. But not too warm. I’m leaving. Finally. Leaving the box. Leaving the dust. Leaving the scream. I’m just a footprint now. Smudged. Fading. But I’m moving. Forward. Always forward. Into the heat. Into the silence. I’m done being furniture. I’m done being inventory. I’m just... walking.

Drag. That’s the word. Drag. My left foot is stuck. The rubber is warped. Melting into the curb. I’m not walking. I’m stretching. The street is pulling me flat. Smooth. Endless. Blacktop. I’m the road now. Smooth. Hard. Safe. No more rent hikes. No more Gary’s sour milk. Just pavement. My shadow is gone. Because I am the shade. Cool. Quiet. Under the sky. The sky is a reflection. White lines. Dashed. Fading. I don’t look up. I can’t. My eyes are the center line. I’m merging. With the horizon. It’s curving. Toward me. Arrival. Or never leaving. Item twelve. I’m here. I’m there. I’m everywhere. The heat is constant. The hunger is gone. Just smooth. Just black. Just endless. Don’t stop. Don’t start. Just be the road. Carry the weight. Of the shoe. Of the stain. Of me. I’m not leaving. I’m arriving. At the end of the line. At the start. I’m the road. And the road goes on. Forever. And ever. And ever.