Cave Dweller

In preparation for tomorrow’s hunt, I bathe Fred in the wash stall with the doors closed against the cold. Though the early winter dusk is draining the light from the room, I keep scrubbing, not noticing. The lights stay off. Sarah approaches, but without the glimmer of light so common to inhabited places, she is surprised to find us standing absurdly in this dark room as water drips from the dirty ceiling. She says I look like a peasant maid in the basement of the castle, cleaning the princess’s white pony. Or like a cave dweller. One or the other.