Why do these questionable life decisions keep coming back to kick me in the girl balls?
I plop the sweatshirt and little black dress and the wad of cotton wool from my now very purple ankle into the shower bottom as instructed, although it’s less a shower than a fiberglass rectangle wide enough for an emaciated six-year-old. “How the hell do you shower in this?”
“Very carefully.”
I peek through the curtain, wise to not pull it away from the wall enough for him to see I’m still butt naked. He’s making tea.
“Do you take honey?”
“And whisky.”
“You can’t have any booze until we get your body temperature back to normal.” I know the medical rules of mixing alcohol and potential hypothermia. Those St. Bernards with barrels of brandy? Pure myth. Alcohol can make hypothermia worse, and St. Be
