Harley turns the shower knob all the way to the left. HISS. Cold. He turns it further. Rattle-clank. Icy, needle-like spray.

No hot water, Harley Dean.

Fifteen minutes later, he turns off the water. He’s shaking, blue-lipped, but his eyes are clear. He towels off with a thin, scratchy towel that smells like bleach. He looks in the mirror again.

A woman’s voice, wary: “Hello?”