He got out the broom and started sweeping, for no reason; the lasagna stayed intact and the scattered frost would melt. It was just a way to keep getting rid of her. The last hair from her brush, the last sloughed-off skin cell, all the bits of her DNA—how long until they disappeared? He thought it would be quick. Joanna, her things, gone, just a note, a number “for emergencies.” Pack. Leave. Over. A clean break so he could get on with his life. He hadn’t expected this—the way her body was still leaving him molecule by molecule.