LATER THAT NIGHT, when I decide I need to use the restroom and shower, I don't realize that I need to close the door until Marisol yells at me to shut it.

"Why?" I'm standing in the middle of the bathroom, the tiles cold beneath my bare feet. The mirror is still foggy from Marisol's shower earlier.

"Because of public decency. You don't want the whole world to see your hoo-ha. Unless you want to. In which case, I support you. Just not while you're peeing. Please."

"To see my what?"

"Your"—she gestures vaguely at her own crotch—"you know."

"Marisol, you can say vagina. It isn't a dirty word."

"Jesus, I know, I meant—I just—could you close the door, please?"

"Small spaces freak me out."

"So does the idea of watching you pee."

Marisol walks over and closes the door herself, shutting me inside.

There is a piece of wood separating me from the outside world, and the walls are closing in. My lungs ache as if all the air has been squeezed out of me—it's getting harder to breathe. Just this piece of wood between me and freedom, and look what it's still managed to do to me.

I turn the shower on the way Marisol showed me earlier and the shock of cold water against my skin knocks me out of my spiral. I turn the knob a quarter of the way to the left so that the water will heat up. While I wait for it to do so, I squat over the toilet. When I am finished I wipe and press the button that makes everything disappear with a whoosh.

Magical.

The slimy bar of soap slips between my fingers as I try to wash them, leaving bubbles all over the place. I scrub my hands under the sink water until there are no bubbles left.

Drying my hands off with a towel, I then immediately wet them again as I test the shower water. Satisfied, I disrobe, pile my clothes in the corner, and climb into the tub.

The water cascades over me, warm and soft, and I shut my eyes against its embrace. Where do they keep the fire to heat it? For it to have gotten so warm so quickly, it must be close. How many slaves does it take to man? The Athenian population must be overrun with them. At the price of convenience, they'll be risking an uprising. Am I supposed to sit or stand? Back home it depends on how deep the water is, but that doesn't appear to be an issue here. I test out both positions before deciding it's more comfortable to stand. What am I supposed to do first? There are three different types of soap, each clearly labelled: shower gel, shampoo, conditioner. Marisol told me the order mattered. And that each does a different thing and goes on a different part of my body. Shampoo and conditioner in my hair, shower gel for the rest of me; wasn't that what she said?

Shampoo comes first. I can remember as much. I squeeze the shampoo, a light, viscous purple liquid, into my hands and bring it to my nose to smell—lavender. The smell I noticed on Marisol. When I rub it between my hands it turns to a foamy lather that I rub into my hair and rinse. I do the same for the conditioner, which appears the same as the shampoo but is white instead of purple. No matter how hard I scrub, it doesn't foam over. Then comes the shower gel, opaque and purple, with bubbles inside of it. I rub it between my hands, holding them close to my face to watch it foam over. A bubble pops, and just the tiniest bit of shower gel splashes into my eye.

It burns. I yelp, frantically rubbing at both eyes. Except, the problem is that my hands are still covered in the stuff. By rubbing at my eyes, I'm effectively rubbing more shower gel into them.

It blinds me. I can't open my eyes without seeing all this red everywhere. Even when I have them closed, the burning sensation doesn't go away. I shove my face under the spray of water, but that doesn't offer me any relief.

"MARISOL!" I yank the shower curtain back, stumbling out of the tub, tripping over the high sides of it in the process. "HELP!"

Blindly, I fumble to the bathroom door and manage to pull it open. Water and soap bubbles pour off of me.

"Marisol?" I ask.

There's no answer.

My pulse quickens.

I peer at the room through all the red and the pain.

I can see the outline of everything, just barely.

Marisol isn't here.