“Uh, no. Not a thing in my world.”
“Right,” she said, and appeared strangely daunted. How could you be intimidated by something like showering? He smiled, finding it cathartic to see her, the tyrant, suddenly terrified of something so trivial. It was like finding out that a fearsome tiger was scared of getting its nails done.
He shut the door, but then—because he couldn’t get too far from her—leaned against it. He did so absently, but then was shocked to discover he didn’t fall straight through. Just like he didn’t fall through the floor. So…why did he sometimes pass through things, but not always?
（I could have explained. Unfortunately, at that moment I was being used to hold a large overstuffed coat, three bags, a puppy in a carrying case, and three boiled eggs. Don’t ask.）
The sound of the water grew louder in the bathroom, then the telltale noise of splashing followed as Yumi stepped in. A few moments later, Painter was pretty sure he heard her sigh in satisfaction.
“Nice, eh?” he said.
“It’s warm,” Yumi’s voice said, echoing in the small bathroom. “I’d begun to think you people had no idea what it was to feel properly warm.” She paused. “Um…what is shampoo?”
“For your hair,” he said. “Lather it up in your hair to clean it. Then use the conditioner to…uh… It’s good for the hair somehow. Trust me. It, um, moisturizes?”
“Right. I’ll…shampoo, then? Do I do it now? Or after I’ve used the soap? And to what count do I lather before rinsing?”
“There aren’t rules, Yumi,” he said. “You’ve really never done this before on your own? What about when you were a kid?”
“I told you I was chosen by the spirits as a baby,” she replied. “Taken from my parents, raised by the wardens to my singular purpose.”
“That’s terrible,” he said （lowly）。 “You didn’t get a childhood at all?”
“A yoki-hijo is not a child,” she said, her voice bearing the air of an oft-recited line. “Nor is she an adult. The yoki-hijo is a manifestation of the will of the spirits. Her entire existence is service.”
No wonder she was so strange. Didn’t excuse her being the human manifestation of what it felt like to miss the last bus home, but—considering all of this—at least she made more sense to him now.
“How is it,” she asked, her voice echoing, “that your people have captured this geyser and channeled it to your will?”
“It’s not a geyser. It’s water pumped from the lake, filtered and heated.”
“Pumped? Are there people working those pumps right now to deliver this?”
“No, it’s machines powered by the hion lines,” he said. “The heating too. Touch opposite hion lines to metal and it will heat up. It’s basic science to turn that into a bus engine or a simple heater.”
“How do you know all this?”
“School,” he said.
“You are a painter.”
“School teaches more than just painting.”
“I was not taught anything but my duties,” she said, her voice softer. “It is better that way. I must keep focus. Other things might…cloud my mind with frivolities.”
The conversation died off, and he let her linger in the shower—longer than he’d have let himself. Eventually Yumi stopped on her own. A few minutes later she said, “Do I put these clothes back on?”
“Please don’t,” he said. “They haven’t been washed in days. Put on a towel for now.”
She stepped out a moment later, wrapped in three towels. Well, fair enough. Painter led her to his pile of clean clothing. “I didn’t get around to folding these.”
She cocked an eyebrow.
“I intended to,” he said. “I usually fold everything right after it’s washed.”
“I’m sure,” she said, nudging the pile with her toe. “This is all going to be too big on me, isn’t it?”
“Yumi, in your world, you wear a dress that’s roughly the size of a bedspread. I think you’ll be fine.”
She put a hand to her towels, then paused. But he was already walking to the bathroom, which was close enough that he didn’t hit the end of his leash. He stepped inside, giving her privacy.
“Thank you,” she said from outside. “For being so…thoughtful.”
“This isn’t being thoughtful,” he said. “It’s basic decency.”
“Still, I didn’t expect it.”
“It’s almost like it’s unfair to judge a person based on how they react after being forced into someone else’s body, towed off to a strange location, then forcibly stripped. Eh?”
“I guess,” she said, “we’ve both been under…unusual amounts of stress.” A few minutes later she continued. “All right. I don’t like it, but this will have to do.”
Painter stepped out to find her wearing…
Well, it certainly met the definition of an outfit. It was clothing, at least. Worn on a body. She’d found one of his longer shirts—a thick turtleneck—and had put that on. He wasn’t too surprised by that, but she’d put a sweatshirt on over that, and the combination of long turtleneck and shorter sweatshirt was comical. In fact, the sweatshirt puffed out a little, as if she had another smaller one on underneath it. How many layers was she wearing?
Regardless, it was the sweater she was using as a skirt—the sleeves tucked into the waist—that really threw him for a loop. She had put on some trousers underneath that as well, which was good he supposed. But…
Wow. The total effect was truly something.
“Do women actually go out like this?” she asked him. “Among your people? Wearing trousers?”
“Not exactly like this…” he said. “Um, you realize that’s…a shirt, not a skirt.”
“I needed to improvise,” she said. “To keep up some semblance of modesty.” She lifted up one foot. “At least your sandals fit, so long as I put on three pairs of socks. But I didn’t see any clogs.”
“You won’t need clogs here…” he said, then trailed off, trying to find something else to say. How could her clothing look so baggy, yet so overstuffed at the same time? It was swallowing her completely, like her head was peeking out the mouth of some bizarre fish made of cloth.
She stepped over to the mirror on the door of the bathroom and seemed to deflate a little at the sight. Well, after how much he’d been through in her world, it was hard to feel sorry for her. Maybe this would help her build a little empathy.
“You aren’t too hot in that?” he asked.
“Your world is unnaturally cold,” she said. “I think it’s best to be prepared. I’m ready to go petition your foreman. Please lead the way.”
He had to show her how to lock the door after herself—apparently that was another thing she didn’t understand. “People would come in?” she said, turning the key. “To your home? When you’re not there? Why? To wait for you?”
He shook his head and led her down the steps to the ground floor. Here, she froze at the exit to the building, looking up at the dark sky.