—Ralph Waldo Emerson I shower in an outdoor stall with an open roof looking up into kudzu-covered trees. There’s a hand pump that draws icy water up from the ground into a bucket. I hesitate, wishing there was a way to warm it up, but I can’t be too picky. This is the first time in my life I’ve been dirty enough to actually need a shower, and to be honest, I kind of like the feeling. I go ahead and douse half the bracing-cold water over me then scrub with a thick cake of soap the same color as the kudzu leaves. When I’m clean, I find my underwear, damp but freshly washed, hanging on a peg in a little curtained area outside the shower. The shirt I took from Basil’s mom’s house is missing. In its place is a shapeless dress made of scratchy brown fabric that all the women except Gaia wear, plus woven sandals that feel good on my tender feet and help support my sore ankle, which is still a bit swollen and discolored. I’ve never cared much about what I wear, but I find it slightly embarrassing to leave the stall dressed in a sack.
