"At least it's an old dead body," Clarisse calls back down, though she agrees that the musty stench is gross. She wonders briefly what Arizona must look like in this universe. Everyone who died there is probably, like, mummified. She doesn't want to think about it for too long.

She steps into the first room to the left of the stairs. It doesn't look like anything special. A queen-sized bed covered in what looks like about five inches of dust, a bookshelf with a bunch of John Grisham novels and other boring shit. She crouches to peek under the bed, but there's nothing under there but some nasty old slippers.

"Shit," she murmurs, annoyed. The closet, maybe.