The McGregor building was in the heart of the Wayne State campus, surrounded by deep fountains that had been turned off as long as Dune could remember. When Dune was part of Detroit Summer, they spent every summer in this building, amongst hundreds of people pursuing liberation in every way at the Allied Media Conference. Learning and teaching radical ways of communicating and living meant Dune trailing Marta to workshops and getting haircuts and tattoos and finding herself in the private release of packed parties… This building was the epicenter for four days each June. The architecture of this building, metal lattice work in diamond shapes, straight lines and open space, had been futuristic once, probably in the fifties. She was intrigued by ideas and images of the future from the past—she was her mother’s daughter in this way, carried a name that spoke a future.

Dune joined a line of strangers in sweaters, scarves and rain jackets, all snaked around the huge open atrium. This was by far the most people she had seen together since H-8 arrived.

She realized as she stood there that she needed to pee. She tried to wait it out, but the warmer the room got, the heavier the pressure was inside her. Dune assessed the woman behind her, wondering if she would hold the spot. She was elderly, with cocoa brown skin in a million small folds, wearing a bulky cable knit over a massive sundress that looked homemade. A trustworthy outfit. Dune finally asked for help, fidgeting in place. The elder looked burdened, said, “I guess.”

The bathrooms for the public were on the second floor, up a set of stairs that seemed to float between the wall and a slender metal pole up the center. Dune had never relaxed on these stairs, nothing about them felt sturdy. At the top was a square of open balcony hallways that moved around the atrium below like it was an ancient courtyard. The bathroom, straight ahead, aimed for elegance with an old school foyer. A large mirror framed with lightbulbs and leather-topped stools in front of it made it impossible not to see her full length before she got to the stalls. She rushed past herself and peed, exhaling as her body emptied.

Dune hadn’t looked at herself much recently. She faced herself briefly on the way out. Her eyes looked different, darker, her face wide and pale, too much time in the basement. Under a new and noticeable belly, her hips rounded out her jeans where they used to fall straight. She dried her hands on her pants as she left.

Dune glanced down at the coiling crowd. She was interested in the clusters, the people who were together. There was a group of Black women standing together, wearing overalls, jeans, boots that could handle some weather, gloves with the finger flesh showing. She wondered where they lived.