It reminded me of her kitchen, clean, plain, with white towels and a rag rug on the floor, and soap that smelled nice, but only like soap. (What was it? Flowers and strong perfumes for the bath?) The robe on the door hook was navy blue cotton flannel. Had the Triumph been Sunny Rico’s only indulgence? She mostly lived as if she didn’t want to leave fingerprints.

The water was very hot, and there seemed to be a lot of it. I cried in the shower, because I knew Tick-Tick would have asked how they heated water for the building. It was harder to stop, knowing that no one could see or hear me do it. Was that why Sunny had assured me I didn’t want to be alone? I dried off, and combed my hair, and noticed that I’d be the better for a shave. One of these days. The robe fit. I carried my towel and my dirty clothes into the kitchen.

Sunny was standing at the counter looking at nothing. I thought she jumped a little when I came in, as if she knew someone was there but didn’t expect it to be me.

“If I wash these, is there some place I can leave them to dry?” I asked her, holding up the clothes.

She let her breath out. “There’s a line on the balcony out back. You can hang the towel out, too. Don’t worry about washing it.”

Sunny closed herself in the bathroom, and I did a hasty job on my jeans and T-shirt in the kitchen sink. It had quit raining by the time I stepped out on the balcony, and I set to work pinning things on the clothes line. The ordinariness of it was comforting. Everything had just changed—except that clothes still got dirty, and I could still make them clean again the same way I had before everything changed.

Don’t think about it, I insisted.

Sunny had made coffee while I showered. I poured myself a cup, and was carrying it down the hall to the living room when the bathroom door opened.

Steam puffed out, and light into the unlit hall.