At 11:56 pm, finish mixing the white paint. Pour it in the empty shoe bin. Take off your socks. Leave them on the floor. Put your feet in the paint. Get it between your toes.

You’re facing your apartment door. He’s on the other side. At exactly 11:59 pm, unlock the door in your wet feet. Don’t open it. After that, you can try to do something normal.

The wine bottle isn’t done yet. Leave it open that way. Leave the glass by the sink. Leave the small splash and rings to dry overnight. You want to leave a trace. You want to be a good participant. Look around the one (1) bedroom apartment you’ve lived in for exactly one (1) year. Tomorrow, by 11:59 pm, you move out. You were asked not to prepare. No cleaning allowed. Over the phone, he kept saying “normal.”

So you go to the bedroom, trailing white footprints. Open the window. Lie under the sheet. “Normal.” Your feet stick out over the mattress edge so the paint doesn’t get on the sheets, even though you’ll leave those behind too. The paint drips onto the catalog carpet below.

You close the bedroom door. You aren’t afraid of him, but you don’t want to see him yet, his reactions betraying his first impressions. You want a little privacy while you can get it.

The front door creaks open. Some large things are placed on the floor — likely equipment, lights and cameras and lenses. You wish you’d peed first. Try sleep anyway. You will later, out of necessity. But not yet. You know he’ll put the toilet’s contents in a jar. You know he’ll put that jar on display. You don’t want to start the night with that.

He’s recording the street sounds, so all that’s left is to remember the breeze. Cameras click as you fall asleep. He is photographing every inch of the apartment. You never want to look that close. It’s hard to let someone else do it. You hear him open every cabinet, box, and condiment jar. Then the sound of something you can’t place.

Before you, in other apartments, he found a total of 12 wedding rings, a few pounds of human feces, 5 used condoms, and one (1) rare venomous spider. He found exactly 1.68 grams of cocaine, 4.3 grams of meth, and 12.72 ounces of cannabis. He found enough human hair to make more than 2 wigs. He’s laid them out in boxes strand by strand. He will combine them when, if, he ever stops collecting.

And you too were fascinated the annual life of previous participants. Remember — someone’s uncle passed unexpectedly in their place and the exhibit included the five (5) page coronary report. In another one (1), the apartment ceiling leaked and strange colors spread down the walls. The artist moved the subject to a new place and took time-lapse photos of the growing stains, like roots of rot.

There was the atheist who took a vow of silence for the whole 24 hours. She didn’t warn the artist. On the night of, she opened the door with a dramatic sticky note: “I’m attempting a sober religious experience. See if you can capture it.”

Her apartment exhibit was especially sparse. One critique implied the artist’s disdain of this stunt. That’s when you stopped reading reviews. That wasn’t going to be you.

You don’t like to chase too hard. You’re too busy, or maybe too distracted. You first applied for the rent relief. In one (1) project apartment, the artist arrived for the 24 hours to find three (3) generation family, speaking five (5) languages between them. They made do with the one (1) bedroom. You got that. It made sense. So you applied. Maybe it would be a year of lower stress, where the price is your detritus. Then the future will be private and paid for, well worth the intrusion.

This year, you realized how closely you live with things you could live without. Like, you used to love certain coffee mugs. Every few months, you’d cart a select few to a new sublet, clasping the one with a warm pig engraving or else a bunch of bugs with strange names. When you lived in your car, the mugs slept on the cowl, under the window, standing watch over various parking lots.

But you couldn’t get attached this time. The mugs you moved in with were always just things you knew you’d leave behind; in 11 months, in 7 months, in 4. Maybe that means they were better gone. Maybe you want to start fresh.

Of course, you can’t — sleep, that is. There is an artist in your home. He’s capturing every crack and the spaces in-between them, the tiny crannies behind everything, carefully measuring the height of hard-to-reach dust. He’s probably photographing your trash right now.

But you do drift. Imagine hairballs roaming like tumbleweeds, spiders sweeping dust into neat piles for chemical analysis.

Your life isn’t exactly exciting, but you wonder if it will seem so when he’s done. Maybe that’s what you wanted, because this is something you can say you did. Maybe he’s matching your curtains to color swatches, prepping for an in-depth design analysis. Maybe he’s scanning everything to build a diorama, or a 3D virtual tour, matching every item with online listings. Maybe he’s going to give all this data to an AI, and a holograph will do its best data-informed impression of you on a 24-hour cycle. Maybe he’s gluing books to the shelf, disconnecting your wifi. He’s gilding the router.

You wonder if he found it yet, the something hidden in the sofa cushions for a future museum visitor. You cheated a little. The artist can decide if it belongs in a glass display. You aren’t trying to go viral. Remember that long-lost picture of that guy’s mom and how it all turned out to be fake. How can you fake your own life?

Dream you have a cat. You forgot to pay for it, even after signing all the papers. You forget to bring it home, but all the cat litter was delivered and it’s waiting at your door. A sudden urgency. Wake. Open your eyes. Every knickknack in the bedroom is outlined in chalk, including your phone and the wardrobe’s round feet. It used to be your grandmother’s. You don’t mind letting it all go.

There’s a fresh bin of paint by the bed. You dip your feet in again before making coffee. The apartment is a mess of crime scene scribbles on tile and varnish and fake wood and walls. If you move anything, there will be a record of it.

He shakes his head, smiles at your offer. He says as little as possible, gesturing at the mic, shrugging — he’d like to share himself too, but he’s at work. This is his job. Gesturing at the big red record button with an open palm, he raises his eyebrows in a polite question. You nod in consent, he can record. The first thing he says is, “What color was the cat?”

You only remember its red eyes. “Like the flash was always on.”

He takes notes on a legal pad. There are tallies for your every spoon of sugar. He’d probably count the granules if you moved slow. You say, “My stepfather always drank his coffee black. He said when another Great Depression hit they couldn’t take cream away from him. He said it was the trick to staying happy. He said staying happy is harder than being happy.”

You aren’t much of a talker. Still the story comes out easy. Everyone says he’s easy to talk to. Maybe because he’s short. He smiles a lot for a man. His accent gentles the low notes of his voice. They say cops study his technique for interrogations. He looks out from under his messy hair. He nods, takes notes, then asks, “Is it harder being happy? Does the sugar trick work?”

“I, uh, don’t know. I’ve never tried it. Honestly, I probably won’t. Unless I have to.”

The artist smiles a little. “Then let’s talk about you.”

It’s around 5 am, much earlier than you usually wake. Chalk surrounds the clustering plants, a fallen towel. You look around. Did you leave everything too clean? Why didn’t you replace the stand-in art when you bought the frames?

Wash your feet before you take the required shower. Remove the paint as best you can. For this part, some people let him into the bathroom. You don’t. He records from outside the door. One man invited him into the shower with him, and the artist held the ZOOM microphone above the stream as they talked. That guy said, “I’m most myself when I’m showering.”

Not you. The water is like creamy milk. When it’s done running down the drain, plug the tub. The shower water rises.

Shower. Get out. Dip your feet again into the white. Towel on, you call out, “I’m ready.” He carries in a thick plexiglas cover, perfectly cut for the tub’s dimensions. He seals it on, then grabs at the room’s steam with a jar. Meanwhile, whatever’s in the milky tub sinks without interruption.

“My only regret,” he allows, “I cannot capture all the steam, escaping. Like ghosts.”

He also refuses breakfast. You read somewhere that a handful of participants joined him in the fast. You won’t. You microwave a supermarket bagel for a few seconds until it defrosts. Then put it in the toaster. Your routine becomes a last ritual. Get out the cream cheese packet. Say goodbye to the faucet, the particular pattern of squeaky floorboards. Spread and eat. The bagel becomes a compact disc as soon as you bite it. Leave behind footprints that prove, at least today, you tried to do all your exercises.

When you’re ready, he begins the interview portion. There’s video for this part. Sit in the broken brown chair you found in an alley. When you pulled it inside, a downpour started suddenly, when the sky had just been blue. The plant next to you is slightly dying. You worry if your clothes are right. After he presses record, you ask to go change. He doesn’t stop the camera, following you from afar as you go into the bedroom. You close the door behind you. You come back in a blazer. Sit. The artist seems comfortable, practiced. It is the first time his ease decreases yours.

“What’s your first memory?"

“When you were ill as a child, did your parents advise you to poop or vomit?”

“Do you dream in color?” "Is the color scheme consistent across dreams or varied?”

You recount the cat’s camera-red eyes, just to be thorough.

“In your experience, what do people think of you when they first meet you?”

“What would your 10-year-old self say if they could see you now?” “What would you say to your 10-year-old self?”

You are tempted to answer with a revealing string of warnings.

“What was your first-ever job?” You talk about catering when you were 7, how the old men would wink at you and give you bigger tips than anyone else.

Then, he says, list every favorite song ever, preferably in chronological order. List every crush, full names if possible. List every previous pet, including the cause of death. Whenever possible please include any data in all stories — numbers, dates, zip codes of all occurrences.

All this, and you know he’s going to paint the exact position of the stars on your ceiling. He’s captured one (1) of your deep breathes in a jar. He’ll put your vacuum bag on a podium.

He points to the bedroom. With your permission, it’s time to go in there. Dip your toes into the paint again. He starts underneath the bed. He’s down there a long time. You want lunch, but he asks you to wait until he’s ready. Some participants ejaculated for him into a jar. Shiver from the breeze. Shut the window.

You sometimes believe the apocalypse is near, so you imagine the apartment with the windows blasted out. That plexiglass remains over that full tub. Foragers come and go, baffled by the white footsteps, hoping they lead to hidden treasure. Maybe this building gets torn down, and in the rubble, only the plastic pieces will remain, until whatever wild-enough life learns how to eat it. Wonder where you’ll be, when the time comes.

In your closet, tell him every story you can remember that relates to each clothing item. This includes the contents of your laundry hamper, something you’d been meaning to do before he arrived. It’s too late now. He sticks notes on each pair of underwear, each shirt, with sewing needles and staples, depending on the story’s weight. Soon the hangings of your life are crinkle like paper birds.

He forgets that you don’t have a pet, asks twice about it, and apologizes for the mistake when you say you can’t afford one. “Important for me to know. Some people and their pets...”

You read that article. One guy bought a crocodile a week before his time in the artist’s project was up. He kept it in the tub. The artist made an exact replica, and surrendered the reptile to appropriate authorities. A woman saved her dead goldfish in the freezer for 3 months, waiting for the artist to arrive. She asked him what to do with it, if he wanted to preserve it. And he did, unplugging the fridge, encasing it in something plastic for all eternity.

Night falls faster than you expect. At the end, he says, “Is there anything we forgot to talk about?” and your mouth feels over-full of leftovers. Think about it. Wash your feet in the sink (drain plugged). Dry off with the hand towel, place it carelessly on the table just for the artist. You like him. You want him to have a good show. Put on the only shoes and clothes you’re taking to the next place. Leave behind your used shower towels and interview outfit.

Some previous participants were also exhibitionists. When the 24 hours were up, they still had things they want to show and tell. Frantic, they pulled out all their most private keepsakes, fingernail clippings, every long-distance bus ticket, sex toys. But the artist refused any more explanations or objects. He looked away and left; wouldn’t take any more pictures. He ignored all their calls. They saw the exhibition go live like everyone else. That’s not you. You’re so glad it’s done. You’re using a pseudonym for this, so you have time to think about whether you want to make something of it for yourself.

He hands you the keys to your new apartment. It’s in a neighborhood close to your sister, like you wanted. The rent has been paid for a year. Next year, you could re-up the lease and pay for it yourself. It’s affordable on your wages, if you include tips. It’s ready for you right now. You are about to save more money than you’ve ever had, if you’ve done the math right. You’re about to have zeros on the right side of your bank account balance.

He locks the door behind you. Now it’s you breathing in the long hallway, in front of the museum of your one day of fame. This is the same kind of breath he has in a jar. He might sell that. He’ll definitely sell merch on his website — mostly macro shots of your keepsakes, a portrait or two, maybe a dollhouse-sized apartment of child’s play. But he promised he’d never put a gift shop outside of the museum. That was the deal. Every visitor has to exit into the same world you are walking into, right now, after another day of consuming your life.