We head to the showers. I don’t change out of my clothes until I’m in a stall behind a cheap plastic curtain and then I peel them off slow. Shirt, jeans. I let them stay under my feet. They need to be clean too. I look down at myself. Patches of bruises, scrapes, scratches. I turn the water on. The showerhead sputters once, twice, and then sprays water all over me.

It’s freezing.

“Shit!” Grace shrieks from the stall beside mine. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”

I twist the hot water knob desperately. Nothing happens. No hot water. None. It seems obvious now but Jesus. I run my hands over my body quickly, trying to get as much of the dirt and grime and blood off as possible in the least amount of time. I take measured breaths in and out and pretend the water’s warm. Soak my hair. This is awful.

As soon as I feel clean, I turn the water off and lean against the wall, dripping and shivering. I don’t think that was ten minutes. Grace is still under the water, so I sprint out naked, grab my clothes, and pull them on. They cling to my damp body. I sit on the bench and wait for her. She takes a while, longer than she should, and when she finally does come out, she’s naked. Of course she’s naked but she’s so—confident. She was like that at our sleepover too. At the end of the night, she changed in front of me and I remember wondering what it would be like to have a body like hers. I wonder it now. She’s fleshy and beautiful and I’m so much the opposite of that. I don’t have a body that’s nice to hold. She slips the dress over her head and runs her fingers through her wet hair. She looks especially vintage now, perfect and untouched.

“Trace thinks maybe they’re still alive,” she says casually, like she’s talking about the weather, clothes, I don’t know. I’d almost believe it meant as little to her as any of those things if her face didn’t dissolve directly after she said it. She brings her arm to her eyes and cries.

I don’t know what to do.

“I can get him if you want,” I offer awkwardly.

“No. God, I don’t want him to see me like this.” She lowers her arm and takes short breaths in and out. “I think they’re dead. I think they’re dead. I have to say it. They’re dead. But I don’t want Trace to know I think that. I want him to hope.”

I bet Lily’s safe wherever she is. I bet she found a soldier who took her away to some camp, some survivor camp, and she’s in some bunker right now, eating rations. Flirting.

I bet this is all a relief to her.

“You’re a good sister,” I tell Grace, but I feel very far away when I do.

“Thanks.” She wipes at her face. “Uhm, could you just … give me a minute?”