The warm water feels amazing lapsing against my grimy skin. In this white ceramic tub, where we usually preserve drinking water strictly for survival, I am cleansing the last few months away. I'm watching the hazy water as it empties down the drain. My nails are clean, cut neatly into foreign oval shapes, courtesy of little Livvy. I don't feel their sharp edges now as I scrub at my scalp and, lo and behold, no disgusting residue enters under my nails. This is truly something close to a miracle.
Three soft knocks against the door has me lifting my rested head away from the edge of the tub—and I have to stop myself from grabbing the rusted knife from on top of the toilet instinctively.
"Who is it?" I call out to the intruder on the other side of the door.
"Karlie," she replies.
