Chowder is still held out from his body, looking as puzzled as all get out.
Just get on with it.
I lift my foot, step it down. Exhale.
“No,” I tell Walter, and mean it. “Everything is perfect.”
And then I go inside. Even once I’m in and have shut the door behind me (with a small final wave forChowder), I can’t seem to get used to this place. The light is too bright, as if it knows I don’t belongand can’t believe I have the audacity to dirty its shine.
The tiles are too slippery, although my feet, peeking through the holes in my socks, do stop me fromdoing a faceplant.
Still, I lock the door, wrestle off my clothes and shoes, then race to the tub, carefully avoiding myreflection. No need to be reminded that my under-eye circles would give an insomniac a run for their
