A box sits in the closet. Marcy Stevens was supposed to fill it for a colon screening a week ago, but she has procrastinated, like she’s always done when things get too scary, like paying the rent or the utility and doctor bills—even though she has the money. She just holds out until the last minute—until the last eviction notice. And this sample is no exception. She keeps getting notices on her phone. There are expiration dates. She tells herself the directions are too complicated, but she probably already knows what’s really bothering her, deep down inside.

#

At Cousin Betty’s funeral, in 2016, everyone passed around the mayonnaise sandwiches. Marcy always thought the sandwiches were cursed because she swore Betty hung around while she ate hers, in the backyard, her ghost still better than Marcy, who thought she was doing pretty well for once because she, unlike Betty, was still alive. Marcy swore Betty flitted about the yard, picked flowers for her hair, whispered in her ear about how she didn’t have to drink a beer every time she went out because that might signal “a problem.” And, did Marcy know the secret to happiness? Well, Betty would tell her: completing things. Marking them off the checklist. And that’s how Betty got her doctorate degree. And then promptly died. But something told Marcy she wasn’t finished, not just yet. More white bread and mayonnaise sandwiches came Marcy’s way, in the 90-degree heat, and she ate them because she was hungry, and with each swallow, she imagined Betty, with that damned flower clip she always wore in her hair, disappearing.

#

At the doctor’s office, Marcy checks off all the boxes: she’s fine, she’s healthy, she doesn’t drink too much (despite what Betty thinks), and she doesn’t have irregular bowel movements. But her voice shakes when she says that last part. She blames that last part on a long-distance move after the funeral; maybe she’s not used to the water, she’s getting older, can’t eat so many sweet things anymore. It was 2016 when she started to feel like something was pushing on her abdomen, but she’d never tell the doctor that—or how her stomach swells and pops and never quite feels normal.

#

The phone beeps with more messages. Every time a UPS truck goes by, she panics. She hasn’t filled the box yet, and she’s out of excuses.

She opens it, finds the tubes and bottles and collection container. She reads the directions carefully, at least three times, and then…she goes. Her stomach churns the whole time. A faint smell of iron hangs in the air, and when she finishes, and looks back, she sees what looks like Betty’s flower clip, impossibly fresh and new, the petals unfurling, growing wider—and sharper, like teeth. Marcy sucks in her breath as the flower transforms into a hideous, disfigured head with jaws that ooze, a fresh stench of years of hate filling up the room. The face shrieks, grows fingers to claw its way out, but for the first time, Marcy feels settled in the pit of her stomach—strong on her legs. She tightens the lid on the container and ships it off, with the date and time marked “complete.”