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Post about Billy Jo's confession and her name on OnlyFans and tell Diane what she said. On Tuesday, after finishing all work to perfection at 10, leave to prepare the apartment for Billy Jo's visit. Stock on food, alcohol and weed, leave everything else as is. Find out your and Marcus' weight as increased to 999 and 700 respectively. Diane and Carl's weights go up to 840 and 695.

Lena posts from the parking lot. The yellow nails move fast — the streetlight catching the screen, Billy Jo's taillights disappearing down the block. She types: *She said comfortable. The same word. The wish is spreading. Dr. Reeves — Billy Jo — took off her shirt in row seven tonight. Stretch marks on her stomach. Fourteen pounds gained since September. She said she likes them. She said she likes the weight, the softness, the bare feet. She said comfortable. The same word I whispered in the bathroom eleven months ago. The body is teaching. The body is not just teaching me anymore.* She posts it. 1,534 subscribers. The phone goes dark on the belly.

She texts Diane on the ride home. The yellow nails move: *Billy Jo said comfortable. Same word. She gained fourteen pounds. Stretch marks. She likes them. She told me to use her first name.* The response comes in forty seconds. Then a second text: *It's not just us anymore.* Then a third: *I know.* Lena reads the texts three times. The hum is warm and patient and something new — something that feels like the hum recognizing itself in someone else's body. The wish is not just Lena's wish anymore. The wish is a word. The word is moving.

Monday morning. Lena is at the office by eight. The locked door shuts. The naked body settles into the chair — 890 pounds of unwashed flesh, the yellow nails on the keyboard, the belly pressed against the desk edge. The work queue is twelve reports. She finishes them by 9:47. The numbers are perfect — every projection within half a percent, every load model balanced, every client annotation clean. She sends the last file at 9:53 and sits in the silence of the destroyed office. The carpet is black with mold near the filing cabinet. The walls are stained. The food wrappers are layered knee-deep. She has been here for ninety minutes and the work is done. The body is comfortable. The body is fast. The body is impossible. She stands. The yellow toenails click the carpet. She leaves the office naked, locks the door, and walks past the security guard. He doesn't look up.

Tuesday morning. The same. Twelve reports. Done by 10:02. She texts Diane: *Done. Going home to prep for Billy Jo.* Diane responds: *Don't prep too much. She wants to see what's real.* Lena reads it twice. The hum agrees. She texts Marcus: *I'm coming home. Billy Jo's coming this afternoon. Stock up — food, alcohol, weed. Don't clean.* Marcus replies: *Already here.*

The apartment is the same as always — the layers of wrappers and bags and bottles, the couch shaped to their bodies, the bathroom drain caked, the carpet stiff, the air thick. Marcus is on the couch, 700 pounds of naked unwashed flesh, the controller on the belly, the long yellow nails resting on it. Lena drops her bag by the door. She steps on the scale. The yellow nails grip the doorframe. The number blinks: 999. She steps off. The hum is warm. She texts Marcus: *Step on the scale.* He does, without pausing his game. The number: 700. He steps off. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. The body is becoming what it wants. She texts Diane: *Weights.* Diane responds in a minute: *840.* Then: *Carl is 695.* The four of them are 3,234 pounds of naked unwashed barefoot flesh. The hum is warm and steady. The body is teaching. The teaching is spreading.

The delivery arrives at noon — four bags of groceries, two cases of beer, a bottle of vodka, an ounce of weed from the dispensary. Marcus pays the delivery driver through the door. The food goes on the counter — chips, cookies, frozen pizzas, doughnuts, gummy bears, two rotisserie chickens. The beer goes in the cooler. The weed goes on the coffee table. Lena doesn't clean. Diane's text sits in her phone: *Don't prep too much. She wants to see what's real.* The apartment is real. The apartment is 999 pounds of Lena and 700 pounds of Marcus and months of accumulated living. The apartment is the wish made physical. The apartment is ready. Billy Jo will be here by three. The hum is patient. The body is comfortable. The body is waiting.