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Terry, the landlord’s handyman, was working on
our makeshift shower. Nothing was wrong with it.
Downstairs neighbors had complained about theirs.
I heard grit on his boots when he stepped out
of the bathtub to speak to Jo, who had come in
to wake me: Brin was dead. The bathroom was shallow
and the door couldn’t swing entirely open.
It hit the tub at 60 degrees when I kept
slamming it into the tub, screaming. My right arm
gripped the door at the height of my shoulder.
Terry’s muddy boot prints were on the floor
of the tub. The bath had a beige rubber hose
secured to the faucet with electric tape—
its plastic shower-head was fastened with a coat-hanger
to the metal pipe—which held the curtain.
The pipe was attached to the ceiling with wire
and fishing line. A small white sink, wall-mounted,
had a small mirror and light fixture above it.
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