Dr. Everett Hallas led Mrs. Sigsby and Trevor Stackhouse past the closed Ward A doors, where an intense, invisible field prickled at their skin. Stackhouse acknowledged the sensation while Hallas, in a glib mood, claimed acclimation to it. Mrs. Sigsby, distracted by stray thoughts, asked Hallas his birthday; he replied September 9 and joked about being an Aquarius, displaying a roguish, performative demeanor.

They proceeded down a dim hallway and stairs to a circular, overheated room marked by a dirty-framed sign reading “REMEMBER THESE WERE HEROES.” A steel hatch with a small readout, plus red and green buttons, faced them. Inside this room, Mrs. Sigsby’s intrusive thoughts and headache eased, though she still dreaded being there.

Hallas’s manner shifted from flippant to crisp, asking whether Maureen Alvorson wore jewelry, was dressed, and if her pockets had been checked. Mrs. Sigsby and Stackhouse had not checked, and Mrs. Sigsby chose not to unwrap the body, reasoning Alvorson’s belongings would be in her locker. Stackhouse appeared strained by the Back Half exposure, and Sigsby briefly considered but rejected the idea of visiting more often to “stay in touch” with the process.

Hallas reopened his jaunty persona and pulled open the stainless hatch, revealing darkness, the smell of cooked meat, and a sooty conveyor belt angling down. Stackhouse lifted the canvas-wrapped body onto the belt; a bottom fold dropped to reveal a single shoe, which Mrs. Sigsby forced herself to face without looking away.

After Hallas’s tasteless prompt for “final words,” Mrs. Sigsby shut him down. Hallas closed the door and pressed the green button, starting the conveyor with a trundle and squeak. When it stopped, he pressed the red button; the temperature readout leapt from 200 to 3200, indicating a much hotter, faster-than-normal cremation.

Hallas offered a “full tour,” reminding them that the facility was always open but that they rarely visited. Mrs. Sigsby declined, citing workload. The disposal concluded as part of a practiced, clinical routine, emphasizing the Institute’s efficiency and moral detachment.