After she is done, she raises a window shade and soon she is sitting on the couch, watching sun spill around the building and light up fields and sky. She holds an ultramarine mug and fuses her eyes with the view and drinks her coffee and Gemma … well. Gemma hasn’t felt so perfect in a long, long time.

As a kid visiting her Oma’s house in Mitchell, Gemma could see the glow of city lights below the clouds at night. Even from forty miles away. Her Oma’d been the last generation in her Menno family to be taught that anyone who went to live in a city—well, they had no hope for salvation. Her grandmother had been a stern woman. But she had once told Gemma softly that as a little girl, on a farm not far from where they sat, she would watch that city glow with awe in the evenings. That could happen round Steinbach area. But you didn’t see it out here. Not out here.

Gemma lies sideways on the couch with her eyes half-closed. She still feels perfect. She has a dream about a green stuffed triceratops she’d had in high school, given to her by a friend who’d fallen off the radar long ago. Gemma had named the dinosaur Carl. In the dream, Carl has blue hair. “Hey,” Carl says, “Do you need—”

Gemma wakes to Ava rustling in the kitchen. “Hey.” Gemma sits up and massages her face. “Hey, I made coffee.” “Did you,” Ava says blankly.

Ava looks annoyed. She’s wearing a long-sleeved cow-print dress and dangly earrings.

“Can I help with anything?” Gemma blurts. She feels sinkingly juvenile as she says this. She is absolutely still drunk.

“I don’t think so.” Ava shoulders a laptop case. She definitely seems annoyed. “I’ll be back by five.” She pecks Gemma on the forehead. “See you tonight.” She travels through the curtain of red beads and out the door.

Gemma has every reason to stay inside until Ava gets back. But Gemma’s never been that kind of woman. That’s just not in Gemma’s DNA.

One of Gemma’s favourite things, far back as she can remember, is showering at someone else’s house. She’s always loved trying every foam and liquid she doesn’t recognize. (The hell is body wash?! was a puzzler as a kid.) Here at Ava’s, she notices a container of Vagisil. So Olive has a pussy. How about that.

Gemma showers for a long time. When she was in high school, and it was winter, she would shave every part of her body, and then stand in the shower and hold her flesh with her eyes closed, and she would carry that peace forward into her day.

Gemma’s never interacted much with trans teenagers. If she did, though, she’d talk about showering.

She gets out and Olive is sitting on the toilet. “Oh.” Gemma fumbles for a towel. “Hi. Hi? I didn’t know you were in here.”