She sniffed quickly. “Smoke.”

“Try again.”

She sat completely still, sniffed again. “Smoke.”

“Give it one more try.”

She didn’t sniff anymore. She just breathed more calmly. “Nothing,” she said finally.

“Nothing,” I said.

Her body was relaxed now.

I leaned my face toward her head. Sniffed. Yes, it smelled of smoke, but it came from her hair, her clothing. The way I also stank. “You know what we get to do today?” I said.

“No.”

“We get to take a shower.”

“A shower?”

“Yes. We get to shower every Tuesday.”

“Is it Tuesday today?”

“Yes. So we get to take a shower.”

“We need it.”

“Yes. We need it.”

Lou held the towel she’d been given with both hands. Then she opened it, like it was a present, the stiff creases from the folds still in place. She lifted it to her face. “It smells of soap.”

I felt my own towel. The stiff fabric was rough against the skin. A clean, pure scent.

“You have to go there,” I said, pointing to the Ladies sign.

“And what about you?”

“I’m going to the men’s shower.”

She nodded. I could see that she didn’t want to be alone, but she didn’t make a fuss about it.

“Remember to wash your hair,” I said. “Use one spurt to get it wet and then work it into a lather using both hands.” I demonstrated with my fists in my own hair. “And then you have to use the next two spurts to rinse it. Get all the soap out.”

“I will.”

“Remember that you only have three spurts. First one. Afterward, two.”

“And get all the soap out of my hair.”

The shower had no heating unit, but the water from the first spurt was lukewarm anyway. It never really got cold in this heat.

The spray hit me on the back of my head, hammering against my skull. I tried to absorb the sensation of each individual drop against my skin, taking pleasure in every one.

Then the spurt of water abruptly came to an end. I turned toward the showerhead. A little water was still trickling out, less and less, until there was no more.

One tenacious drop hung there. Finally it dripped off the shiny head and fell to the floor. Then nothing more.

There was a soap dispenser on the wall. I was almost a little moved by it, that someone had remembered that we needed soap too. I pressed it. Liquid soap in the palms of my hands. I rubbed my hands together, worked up a lather.

I soaped myself thoroughly and for a long time. Hair, neck, hands, feet, crotch, and behind.

The lather was slippery against my skin, removing all the grease. Removing the ash.

I had never been so dirty before, so sticky, so dry, so stinking of sweat. And smoke.

For a moment I didn’t think of anything else, not even of Anna, not of August, just about the soap, the water, about how it was like getting my body back, shedding a layer of skin.