The bathroom was strangely immaculate; Lozow did not seem to have actually used it, preferring an outhouse and washbasin in the yard. Instead, he seemed to have given over the entire room to more models, with both the sink and the bathtub converted to wet/dry landscapes filled with miniature soldiers and other people.

The bathtub, especially, had been partly filled with dirt to form a small archipelago of dry islands, each lush with fake foliage and teeming with small figures seemingly assaulting the tiny islands thusly formed.

Chuck Lozow had apparently been in the middle of reconfiguring the waterscape when he died, as half the tub was a squadron of World War II US Marines locked in combat with a detachment of regular Japanese Army troops, while the other half was space marines in cerulean armor rooting out dug-in green-skinned aliens.

And, as there had been in each of the other rooms, there was a tiny Chuck Kozow in each army. He was a space marine holding a chainsaw sword aloft, a green alien exorting the crew of a rickety red tank to victory, a Marine sergeant on a radio, and a Japanese officer, sword in hand, leading a charge.

Chuck Lozow had rarely left his house after his parents had died, and never left town aside from his abortive time at university. But in the confines of that tiny bathroom alone, he had lived—hell, was still living—four lives.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!