Her twin sister Laura died the morning before, but Jenny had had no time to react. Those around her offered their words of support, their own attempts at a shared grief, and Jenny acted the part, if not felt it. Her memory drifted through things people said to her when they heard the news, random clips that felt like instructions for how to grieve. “Jenny, I'm so sorry,” said her boss, after Jenny finished talking with the hospital and informed him of the conversation. “Take all the time you need. I know it's been rough for you.” “Oh, Jenny,” said her witchy pottery instructor when she called to explain why she had to cancel their lesson. “May you find peace and feel the universe's love.” “Damn, Jenny, I'm so sorry,” said her super when she came home early from work that day and let the news slip out during their elevator ride. “You got any family to support you?” She did not — at least none she was close to. The morning after Laura died, Jenny sat on her hospital bed, silently placing each of her sister's items into a cardboardbox. A framed polaroid picture of them when they were eight, standing with their parents at Disneyland, their identical faces beaming with matching Minnie Mouse ears. Another framed photo, of Laura white-water rafting with friends Jenny knew very little about, but with whom she chatted multiple times a week when they came to visit Laura. A couple of nineties Beanie Babies Laura had dug out of their parents' basement a decade ago, ones they collected together as teenagers. A bottle of B Scent perfume from Lush Cosmetics that Jenny got for Laura's birthday, three-quarters full, Laura's favorite. A few unopened Ensures, strawberry-flavored, one of them possibly punctured — evidenced by a small square ring of fluid when Jenny picked it up to put in the box with the rest of its brethren. A giant conch shell Laura brought home from a trip to Honduras four years earlier, before she got sick — she liked to listen to it, and would press it to Jenny's ear, swearing she would hear the ocean in it if she listened closely. A short wavy auburn wig, which Laura hadn't used since before the hospital, when she was still doing chemo at home — no one judged hairlessness at the hospital, so it had a little dust on it from lack of use. Boxed sets of Dune, the Southern Reach, and The Chronicles of Narnia — Laura was halfway done with the first set of books, the others still unopened. A sequoia pinecone, darkened and partially split from a forest fire, some green and grey lichen clinging to its crown like unruly hair. And finally, a maroon cotton sweater, thickly lined, printed with a green and brown sequoia tree and the mustard yellow words “King's Canyon National Park.” Laura had always wanted to backpack there, but then she got sick. So, Jenny decided to go backpacking there with her (now ex) boyfriend and bought it at the souvenir shop. Laura had cry-laughed when Jenny presented the sweater and pinecone to her, her smile so wide and genuine that her shrunken and sallow face seemed to melt away in that moment. She placed the box on the floor, sighed, and looked around the room. While the air was still permeated with Laura's perfume, it also had that “hospital smell” undertone, of stale urine, plastic, rubbing alcohol, and cafeteria food, the latter of which was floating up from the kitchen directly beneath the floor. She listened to the soft squeak-squeak of nurses' sneakers on linoleum, the rolling of a cart carrying small paper cups full of pills and tablets, a random cough from down the hall, the murmuring of two doctors at the nurse's station, a small female chuckle from a nurse. She felt the space-age glow of fluorescent light, feeling not unlike a pet lizard in a cage. The air was exactly room temperature, not a breeze from anywhere, making her feel as though the lizard cage existed in some sort of a vacuum. There used to be a subtle hum of hospital machinery when Laura was still hooked up to it, but it was silent now, cold, as if it was bored and waiting for the next unfortunate soul to befriend it. Jenny then got up and went downstairs to the front desk, box in one arm, and went through paperwork she paid very little attention to. As the nurses at the desk looked over her paperwork, Jenny looked out of the window at the Space Needle, remembering the time she and Laura went with their elementary school to a viewing deck, holding each other's hands as they looked out over eternally-silver Seattle. We're so sorry for your loss, the head nurse said. After saying her goodbyes and thank you for everything you dids, Jenny hoisted the box on her hips and walked out of the automatic sliding doors and into the half-empty parking lot, back to her slightly dented 2024 Chevrolet Equinox EV. She pressed a button on her key fob to unlock the car doors, buckled herself into the driver's seat, placed the box carefully on the passenger seat, and drove, silently, back home. As soon as she put down the box — placed, delicately, on her duvet — Jenny dug through her walk-in closet, pulling out anything black. She found a black silk gown, floor length, three-quarters sleeves, with a sweetheart neckline. She tried it on and sucked in her stomach; perimenopause had already started the weight gain. She made a mental note to pick up a pair of Spanx. She walked over to her jewelry box and pulled out their mother's pearl necklace; Laura, with undiagnosed ADHD, had accidentally buried their mother with the matching earrings, and they were moldering six feet underground at St. James Cathedral, a couple feet from their father. Jenny then sat in front of the vanity and looked at the pearls in the mirror, noting how the light hit them in such a way as to turn their pearl white into rose gold. Good enough, she thought. I have my own outfit down. Now I just have to find a dress to fit a quadruple-size-zero corpse. The light also hit the box behind her, the one with Laura's things, and Jenny watched it for a moment, then got up to peer in. She pulled out the maroon sweater, unfolded it, and held it out at arm's length. Jenny felt a tightness in her chest, sat down on the bed, and pressed the garment to her face. She sobbed into the sweater until she fell asleep.