My neck hurts, my back hurts, my arms and hands hurt, my legs and feet hurt, even my eyeballs hurt. My muscles are either screaming from hours of repetitive motion or stiff from hours of being held still. At this rate, I won’t have to throw the fight, I’ll lose it honestly.

I pretend not to watch the latrine duty men walking toward us as I stretch my legs. There are about ten of them with Raffe hanging in the back of the group.

When they are a few steps away, they start stripping off their filthy clothes. Grimy shirts, pants and socks get tossed into the laundry pile. Some get tossed into the trash pile. Raffe dug the ditch instead of working on the truly toxic part of the latrines, but not everyone was that lucky. The only thing they leave on are their boxer shorts.

I try very hard not to look at Raffe as I realize he’ll be expected to take his shirt off. He might be able to explain away the bandages under his shirt, but there’s no way he can explain away the blood stains exactly where wings would have been.

I stretch my arms above my head, trying not to look scared. I hold my breath, hoping the men will move along and not notice Raffe lagging behind.

But instead of moving into the buildings for a shower, they grab the hose we’ve been using to fill our tubs. They line up to hose each other off. I could kick myself for not anticipating this. Of course they’ll hose off first. Who would want latrine workers to walk straight into the shared showers?

I steal a glance at Raffe. He’s keeping his cool, but I can tell by how slowly he’s unbuttoning his shirt that he didn’t see this coming either.

He must have figured he could slip away once they got into the building since the showers couldn’t take everyone at the same time. But there is no good excuse to drift away from this part of the routine and no way to do it without being noticed.

Raffe finishes unbuttoning his shirt and instead of taking it off, he slowly starts unbuttoning his pants. Everyone around him has already stripped, and he’s starting to look conspicuous. Just when I’m wondering if we should make a blatant run for it, the solution to our problem saunters toward us on long, shapely legs.

The woman who walked with Raffe to lunch tosses her honey hair as she smiles up at him.

Dee-Dum walk by at that moment. “Oh, hi Anita!” They both say with casual surprise. Their voices are slightly raised, as if to make sure I hear them.