“We’re both going to wash up, and I’m going to study the map again. Much as I’d love to sleep in a bed again tonight, I think it’s best if we head out under the cover of darkness before someone comes looking for our friend.” I wiggle a finger at the blanket-covered dead man.
“Mm.”
I find a small tub—very small, so our fisherman must not have been a big bathing fan—and fill it with hot water and a bucket of the cold water and leave it close to the hearth. There’s a clothesline crossing the interior of the tiny cottage and I hang a blanket over it to add a semblance of privacy. I’d managed to find a gnarly, grayish cake of soap, but it lathers when I give it a test rub, and I quickly undress and get to work scrubbing my body.
Nothing feels better than getting clean. God, nothing. I quickly give myself a once-over to get the worst of the grime off, and rinse in a cold bucket of water. Then I squeeze into the tub, folding myself into a pretzel just to get as much of thewater covering me as possible. Some of it slops onto the warped floorboards, but I don’t care. Bathing feels so good. I didn’t realize how much I was beat down by all the mud I was carrying around. I feel like a new person.
Once I’ve scrubbed every inch of myself twice, I climb out of the tub, wrap myself in one of the old blankets, and get to work on my hair. Bent over the water, I wet and scrub, wet and scrub. By the time I’m done, my hair feels like a knotted tangle, but a clean one. The tub water is a questionable brown, reminding me just how gross I was. I wrap my only clean piece of clothing—a dress—around my wet hair and make a turban. “You’re going to have to dump the water and get fresh for your bath,” I call out from my side of the blanket. “But you’ll feel so much better when you’re done, trust me.”
There’s silence on the other end of the curtain.
I peek over.
Kalos gazes at me, muddy and pale, a look of distaste on his face. “You expect me to draw my own bath?”
“Yeah?”
“And to dump your water?”
“Well, you definitely don’t want to use it. It’s pretty gross.” I glance over at it again to make sure I’m not wrong, and Dingle has his nose in it. “No, Dingle! Not for drinking!”
Kalos speaks again, his words slow as if he’s choosing them carefully. “You…arenotgoing to bathe me?”
I stare at him in shock. He really wants that.
But then I remember…Apathy.
He’s literally never had to take care of himself before, I wager. Even before we started this journey, he sat in the dark and let cobwebs grow on him rather than do…anything. I need to be patient. I need to remember that he can’t help how he is, and he probably hates being Apathy more than anyone. I put a cheery smile on my face. “You’re going to wash yourself and I’ll walk you through it, if that helps.”
He stares at me and sighs like a dramatic child. “Must I?”
“Yes. Those are the rules.”
“Who put you in charge? I am the god here.”
I gesture at him. “Great. Super. Does that mean you want to be in charge, then?”
“Well…no.”
“Then I’ll do it.” I indicate he should stand up. “Come by the fire and get the tub. You’re going to want to dump it outside and we’ll put fresh water in it.”
He gives me a reluctant look and gets to his feet slowly. Kalos moves to stand next to the tub and I head for the door, opening it so he can carry it out into the darkness and pour it into the muddy earth nearby.
“That’s far too much work,” he says, and tips it over, spilling filthy water all over the cottage’s floor.
I bite back my scream of frustration, because what did I expect? Why do I care if the floor is nasty? There’s literally a dead man under a blanket a few feet away. I take a few deep breaths to calm myself and try again. “Okay, well, now that the tub is clear of the dirty water, you can fill it again.”
“Or you could do it for me.”
“I could, but I won’t. If you want to get clean, you’re going to have to do it yourself.”
“What if I don’t want to get clean? I truly don’t care.” He tosses his muddy hair as if to defy me.
I cross my arms over my blanket-towel and eye him. While he’s Apathy, true, there’s something about this declaration that doesn’t sit perfectly well with me. How do I make him bathe? He’s a god—I can’t force him. After a moment, I suggest, “If you don’t bathe, you’re going to stand out when wemake it to the next town, and we’ll be caught for sure. Do you want to stay alive?”
“I don’t care.”
I drum my fingers on my arm. “Then humor me. Do it for me and Dingle? Because I’d really like to live, and I think he would, too.”
