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Long strokes. Methodical. He lifts my wrist, turns my hand over, washes my palm, between my fingers.
The one behind me washes my back. Shoulders. Spine. The small of my back.
The third one washes my other arm.
They don't speak. Don't explain. Just clean me.
The washcloth moves to my collarbone. My throat. Down between my breasts.
I should say something. Stop this. But my mouth won't work.
The cloth slides lower. Over my ribs. My stomach. The soft flesh I hide under oversized hoodies.
Lower.
