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stink.
    It’s something we can no longer blithely ignore, not only because it’s an astronomically bad odor that has begun seeping out from under the restroom door, but also because we’re all too crabby and sullen to bother with manners. Between the vicious gas we’re all suffering from and the nearby sulfurous death chamber just waiting to unleash a new round of villainy every time someone needs to take a piss, it’s become a code-red situation.
    Thus, a meeting is called.
    *   *   *
    “All right, guys,” I say, trying my best to keep a straight face. I’m constantly in danger of bursting into giggles. For one because we’re having a group heart-to-heart about farts, and also because I haven’t slept in days. I’m a giddy, shadowy shell of a human being. I know that the smudges beneath my eyes are beginning to resemble army-issue duffel bags but this matter demands our immediate attention and I’m determined to get it straightened out. I can see Ted is about to start laughing any second so I shoot him a suitably grown-up look.
    “I don’t think I need to point out to everyone how fucking awful it smells in here,” I say, putting my hands on my hips, striking a serious pose. “We need to figure something out because I’d rather be eaten by those god-awful things out there than let this get any worse.”
    “There are the bathrooms out in the hall,” Matt offers, tearing open a bag of Cheetos. He’s looking less like a homeless lumberjack these days.
    “Yes! Exactly my thought! We need to start using them, but wisely, okay? And I know this is gross, but we need to empty the toilet in here. We’ll do it in shifts so no one passes out. There’s a bucket in the maintenance closet at the end of the hall. I don’t think the zombies will mind a little shit and piss so we’ll just toss it out into the store,” I explain. At this, Phil’s head jerks up as if someone’s socked him in the gutsky. “Yes, Phil, what is it?”
    “We can’t do that,” he says with surprising vigor. He doesn’t have bags under his eyes. He sleeps more than all of us put together, more than a narcoleptic old cat.
    “What do you mean?” Ted blurts out, sitting up farther to be able to see Phil. Ted has been eating well and he’s starting to put on some weight. It suits him. Unfortunately, his broken glasses and untamable hair still leave him looking like a Boy Scout. “We can’t let it go on like this, man, it’s fucking gross.”
    “Ted is right,” I say. “He’s absolutely right.”
    “But it’s the store. ”
    “Oh for Christ’s sake, Phil, I don’t think we’ll reopen for at least a few months, okay? Don’t worry about it, please. You’re fucking overruled.” I can’t really explain how good it feels to tell him to shove it. He hasn’t made a nuisance of himself but he certainly hasn’t been much help either.
    “Just … Just try to throw it close to the doors, okay?” I add, and this seems to calm him down a little. “From now on, we’ll use the bathrooms across the hall. Never go alone, check all the stalls and make sure someone is keeping guard. Every three days we’ll empty them out.”
    Matt and Janette amble to the door, looking dour as they prepare to retrieve the bucket from the maintenance closet. This behavior is expected of Matt, but I was hoping Janette would perk up a bit at the thought of helping the group. Phil wanders back into his office and slams the door, making the photos on his wall rattle and dance. Hollianted come to stand by me and I’m glad for their smiles, even if they look exhausted and strained.
    “Well, I think that went well, don’t you?” Ted asks, grinning. He’s wound a bit of electrical tape around the joint of his glasses. The effect is charming.
    “Swimmingly.”
    I take the first Shit Shift, which is what Ted has christened the chore. This is a much worse task than I envisioned and it takes absolutely forever. Let me tell you, when you’ve got a