5.

5.

Trent kneels beside bloody Bill, his phone pressed to his ear.

“Tell . . . Janine . . . ” Bill says.

“Janine who?” Trent says, after asking emergency services to haul ass down to the industrial site.

“Tell her I love her,” Bill says.

Bill will have the opportunity to do so himself. Just a few more minutes and the ambulance will arrive, which will ferry Bill to a hospital, where doctors will perform all the diagnostics he so desperately needs. They’ll throw him in a scanner, and hopefully pick up on whatever’s making him smell the oddest things.

But wait, won’t they find us, as well?

Oh crap, maybe we didn’t think this one through.

Is it worth going to our possible death, knowing that we’ve helped Bill become a better person? Of course not. We send a tendril up Bill’s throat, poised to shoot out his open mouth. If Trent would only lean a little bit closer and stay still for a second or two, we can move out of Bill for good. We’ll always love our first home, but a big part of life is knowing when to say goodbye.