A soapy arm extends over the side of the tub, sets down a book, and then withdraws. The wetted-down crown of Kierk’s head sinks even farther into an aquatic, steamy meditation. The bathwater is opaque with soap, and from his point of view his legs are stuck out far beyond him, partially submerged, the hair on them plastered down—how incredible it is that these are my legs! That I am the thing that owns them! How responsive they are to my commands, how my toes leap to wiggle, how my ankles flex in response, how one leg lifts out of the water at a mere whim and then drops back below! How good it feels to be so submerged in this warmth but to have my feet, my feet, on the cold porcelain edge of the tub; how the sensations differ if the point of contact shifts from the pads of my toes to the expansive roundness of my heel, the change in the texture. How different it would be if these were a young woman’s legs instead of a young man’s! How different but how the same.

Sinking down until he is fully submerged he enters a warm world filled with the background hum of being underwater. From his mouth he releases a few peaceful bubbles. Then comes the knock.