She was in the middle of hooking up some newly bought hydrogen cyanide to the lab’s exterior hatch. There were simpler ways to go—she didn’t have to fill an entire trailer with noxious gas—but in her last act, why not allow herself a bit of flair? A bit of poetry? She’d die the way she’d lived, inside her trailer, her shell, like all those snails who’d died—were still dying, all around the world—curled inside theirs.
