At first glance, her room appears to have fared better than the surrounding hallways. The drain in the corner remained unclogged, so there's no standing water on the floor. The posters are faded and curling, but they still cling stubbornly to the walls. The furniture is still in place, though Melanie isn't sure if the chairs would support her weight anymore, and the books on the shelves look as if they might fall apart if she touched them. But it's about as nice as she could have hoped, and it isn't until she turns back to check on Daniel that she sees what's crumpled on the ground just behind the door.

It's a little body, the ribcage grotesquely split to make way for a large, pale stalk that stretches up toward the ceiling, taller than Melanie is herself. A handful of pockmarks show where the spore pods used to hang; the pods themselves are on the floor around the body, impossibly but undeniably split, emptied. The entire image is softened and blurred by the grey carpet of fungus that has grown to fill that corner, but it's not so thick that Melanie can't make out a tuft of blonde hair, or the pink jeans identical to the ones she's wearing, now.

She had already known that this would be how it ended for her. She had accepted it. But she never expected to see it.

Melanie stares, trembles, and says nothing.