Only when Cyrus unlocked the door to Becca’s apartment, threw his backpack, sprayer, and board on the floor, and walked into the bathroom to wash up did he realize that he was covered in soil. His wool coat was brown with it. A tribal-like smear ran from one cheek to his ear. He looked like he had just finished digging a grave.
He washed his face and tossed an earth-stained rag into the hamper. He had left a trail of muddy shoe prints to the bathroom. Seeing them, he sighed and grabbed the mop. The old Becca would have murdered him for messing up her hardwood floor; the new Becca would have just seen it, shrugged, told him to clean it up or die in a tone that barely had any teeth to it, and wandered off.
He mopped the floor. Soon, the apartment smelled of wood-cleaning soap and Cyrus sw
