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It was obvious that the apartment was a shell he would shed, so unlike the rooms that had become she and Jeremy’s home, covered in rugs and blankets and handwritten notes and Jeremy’s oily fingerprints. Their apartment was not unlike a cocoon, a giant bed, every corner full and occupied, and they had to turn into sludge to transform. He was the apartment, as was she, and how she escaped the fire and he perished was beyond her sense of reality. The thought would not come clearly into focus. He was gone, as was the building, and she must also be. There was only a smudge of Olivia remaining, living here with Connor the unknowable. They were nothing, computer generated drug peddling shadows trying to escape Chicago, trying to escape nonexistence, just like everyone else.