Donya presses her lips together and moves on to coaxing words from the girl next to me. I yank up the hood of my Adidas sweatshirt and glare out at the lake. There’s a small cabin down closer to the water with four canoes propped up against it. That must be where fishing classes will be tomorrow. Being alone in a boat on the water actually sounds kind of nice.

This session goes painfully slowly as I avoid participating at all costs. When Donya finally dismisses us, I stand from my folding chair and stalk down the dirt trail toward my cabin. I concentrate on the ground to avoid eye contact with any retreaters and kick at small rocks every few feet along the way.

I become so engrossed in my rock kicking that I’m completely unprepared when I’m forced sideways by an oncoming mass of flesh that must be a person.

My brain kicks into overdrive as it happens. Alarms spring up through my legs. I can’t afford to fall right now. Falling isn’t just falling anymore. Any weird fall can backpedal my healing progress. Any fall can end up being excruciating. Falling isn’t allowed.

I stumble sideways off the trail into some grass, giving in to the momentum of the collision instead of trying to fight it, and re-right myself vertically as a pile of neon green papers flop to the ground near my feet. A guy drops into my line of sight.

“You have to watch where you’re going!” I scold instinctively.

A brown-skinned boy, slightly older than I am, with styled dark hair, looks up at me. “Sorry! Just getting ready for classes to start and I wasn’t paying enough attention.”

I drop my hood self-consciously and kneel to help him gather his papers. When I lean forward, a bolt of pain shoots down my back. I try not to wince. Move slowly.

“Sorry, it’s okay, I wasn’t … either,” I tell him guiltily without making eye contact.

“You must be one of our new students. Will I see you at fishing tomorrow?” His voice brims with carefree cheer. It irritates me.

It’s weird how the people who work here refer to us as students. Yes, I’m eighteen and could be a student, but some of the women here are middle-aged. I gather up the last of the papers and shove them his way. He takes the stack from me as I answer, “Um, yeah.”

“What’s your name?”

I pull my hood back up over my braid and start hiking toward the cabins again. “Siri.”

“Like an iPhone?”

Original. I keep walking.

The bottle of anti-bac I carry on me at all times is running low after a mere twenty-four hours because I can’t wash my hands at will in this cabin. It’s a six-minute walk from here to the “public cleansing” building.