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The washer always smells like mildew. It smelled that way when they moved in, and regardless of how much Ingrid scrubs and digs her fingers under the rubber gasket — no matter how many black-streaked, vinegar-soaked paper towels she tosses in the trash — a year later, the whiff of rot persists.

The landlords don’t care. Ingrid emailed them when she first moved in, and they told her they’d look into it but never did. She didn’t bother to email them again. There’s mold in the shower, too — at least she can reach it there. Ingrid has a feeling that she just can’t reach all the mold in the washer – no matter how hard she tries, it always comes back.

Ingrid was never very sensitive to mold, but Ben is. His allergies are getting worse. He has headaches. He takes it out on Ingrid, who redoubles her efforts in turn, sure that this time — maybe with a paper towel wrapped around a toothbrush, or a toothpick, or the long, pointed end of her knitting needle — she can extirpate it.

One night, Ben tells her the mold is getting worse. She wouldn’t mind so much, except he keeps forgetting to turn on the fan when he’s done with the shower, and he never leaves the washer door open after a load. Ingrid reminds him — again — and he tells her it wouldn’t be a problem if she could do a better job cleaning.

That night, Ingrid dreams of the mold in the washer spreading to the walls. It looks like a bad paint job, and when she presses her hand against it the mold spreads to her as well, delving deep into her bloodstream and poisoning her from the outside in. Her teeth fall out, her throat constricts, and when she wakes up gasping the washer stares at her through the open bedroom door like a face caught in shock.

It’s easy enough to sign a new lease. Ben is surprised — then angry — and asks her what he’s supposed to do now. “I hear bleach is effective,” she says, and tells him to keep the furniture, and loads her five boxes into the back of a friend’s truck.

The landlord at the new place takes her on a walkthrough. Ingrid opens the door of the front-loading washer and points out the smell, the powder white on the side of the gasket, and the inching black on the metal below the rubber.

“Oh, jeez,” the landlord says, scratching the back of his head. “Sorry about that. I’ll order a new one and put it in next week. With mildew like that, you’ve got to just uproot the whole thing and start over.”

“Oh, I know,” Ingrid says, and smiles.