There’s no Internet and her personal account is still trashed. She hasn’t been using her field, but this morning she felt colder than usual. And lonelier. A long walk keeps her out of the house where the pipes rattle and the walls speak when the wind blows. The icicles drip into drifts piled against the house. When she returns, her teeth are chattering. Her skin feels exhausted and her clothing wrinkled from nights beneath the covers. Body odor puffs out of her sweatshirt, reminds her how long it’s been since she’s showered. The wrapping around her arm has frayed. It takes two minutes for hot water to reach the kitchen sink. Jamie unwinds the stiff gauze. The skin beneath is sickly white and smells sour. She clenches a fist, a slight tingle midway up her forearm where the swelling remains. She washes her hands beneath the hot water, the suds dripping from her elbows. A long drum solo ends in her head.
