The conversation:

([Set to the static hum of the withered tape commingling with the monotonous droll and squeak of the lop-sided ceiling fan that spins just above their invisible heads among other less definable clicks and buzzes that infiltrate the impossible space from which the voices must arise from:]

Unknown: He has slipped into unconsciousness; it is only a matter of time.

Dr. Talloway: Yes. It is out of my hands.

[…]

Unknown: His wife?

[Liquid slurped from a cup.]

Unknown: His Wife?

Dr. Talloway: … Bury him. We will continue testing tomorrow.

Unknown: With who?

[cough]

[Tape cuts to a shrill static squeal before shutting off with a crack])

—all that remains recognizable and intact—brought to the dump, buried and forgotten under a layer of Soda Cans, Banana Peels, Used Condoms, torn and discarded Clothing, Bills, half-filled out Tax Forms, Social Security Numbers, half-nude Photographs dated on the back (1999), Prescription Bottles, Junk Mail, Television Sets (15 years obsolete), Magazine Pages, Shit, Piss and Blood—buried and forgotten.