There was a pause as the shower’s computer ran my blood sample and checked my voice print against the house logs. The light stopped flashing, settling on a steady green. A chime rang, and a pleasant voice that sounded suspiciously like Maggie said, “Welcome, Shaun. Please enter.” The air lock hissed as the seal released and the door swung slowly open. I shuddered as I stepped through. The sound of hydraulics wasn’t going to sit easily with me for a while—not until something else horrible happened to make me forget about the events of the Portland CDC.

The door swung closed behind me, locking with a second, louder hiss. Once the decontamination cycle started, there was no way to cut it short.

“What sort of shower would you prefer?” The voice of the shower came from a speaker set high in the rear wall. Everything but the air lock door was tiled, the floor and ceiling in white, and the walls in a soothing shade of blue. There were four showerheads, set at levels ranging from shoulder height to almost ceiling level. A recessed nook in the left-hand wall held shampoo, conditioner, and a variety of shower gels.

“Hot, short, thorough,” I said. I hesitated before adding, “Please.” It never pays to insult computers that are smart enough to form sentences. Not when they’re in control of the locks, and especially not when they have the capacity to boil you in bleach.

“Absolutely,” said the shower. “Please close your eyes.” That was all the warning I got before the water turned on, cascading with a vengeance from all four showerheads. I closed my eyes half a second too late and sputtered as I tried to wipe them dry. At least this shower started with water. Some of them just go straight to bleach.

The initial blast of water lasted for thirty seconds, letting me get warmed up before the shower announced, still politely, “I will be commencing sterilization on the count of three. Please prepare yourself.”

“Got it,” I said, and screwed my eyes more tightly shut. The liquid raining over me cooled, taking on the sharp smell of industrial-strength bleach. I did my best not to breathe too much as I scrubbed myself down, working the bleach into my skin. It stung like a bitch, just like it always does, but it was a good sting; it was the sting of getting all the way clean and staying alive for another day.

The bleaching stuck to the absolute legminimum, lasting only a few seconds longer than the water. Finally, the shower said, “Normal bathing cycle is beginning. You have four minutes. Please speak if you want to extend this time.”

The bleach stopped immediately, replaced by rapidly warming water. I rinsed my face clean before saying, “Four minutes is fine, thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Shaun,” said the shower.