“I got it,” I mumble, and lift my T-shirt over my shoulders. She’s right about the rips. Three thin cuts cross the fabric where the uchel’s claws held me.

The door bangs open and closed, leaving us alone. Alice leans into one of the stall showers and turns the tap on. While she tests the water, I slip back to the other side to look at myself in the mirror.

No wonder she cursed.

I look wrecked.

My “cute bun” from earlier is long past cute. It’s mostly intact, but ruined with the uchel’s muck. Dark globs have plastered escaped curls to my forehead and the nape of my neck. Glossy eyes, puffy cheeks, bits of dirt on my nose. Most of the slime was on my shirt, but some of it’s caked on my arms and caught in my inner elbow. A long red bruise follows the line of my rib cage. I tug my bra down to hide it. Nick’s coin glints on my sternum. I take the necklace off and stuff it in my pocket.

“Water’s ready, shower stuff’s inside.” Alice comes around to stare at me in the mirror. Opens her mouth to ask another question, but thinks better of it, whatever it was. “I’ll be outside if you need anything.”

Once she’s gone, I undress as quickly as my rib will allow and step into the shower. The water pressure here is weak, but at least the stream’s hot. Uchel stench wafts around me in a noxious steam until vanilla body wash chases it away.

My brain tries to piece together the next steps of a shower—and comes up blank.

This used to happen at home. In the weeks after my mom died, I’d manage the first step of some mundane task—get naked and into the shower, open the fridge and set out the deli meat, dump a load of laundry into the washing machine—and the next step would elude me. Like an old mill, my mind would wheel around and around until it picked up the next directive.

Hair. My hair is dirty. Yes. I can handle that.

I hadn’t planned on even getting my hair wet for at least another week or so, but I can’t avoid washing my curls tonight. Not when they smell like sick and swamp. They’ll be clean and gorgeous tomorrow, but the unexpected added time makes me groan. That’s another hour and a half at least before I can really climb into bed, even if I skip deep conditioning and styling and throw everything up into a wet pineapple.

Alice returns as I part my thick damp hair into sections.

“Okay in there?”

“Yeah. Just realized I need to wash my hair.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

Silence. She doesn’t leave. I’m okay with that, because I want her company. Not just anyone’s. Alice’s.