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and then fades. I find shampoo and try to untangle my hair, then soap my body and soap again.
    I stand naked in front of a large mirror. I am too tired to be surprised, although not too tired to make note of that fact. My jutted ribs, the lack of fat on my ass, the scrapes on my side, the rise of hipbones, the raised welts of some rash, the bruise that runs down one thigh. I peer closer. My scraped cheek, the swell beneath it, the bump and blooming bit of blood on my forehead. My eyes, seeking myself. My pupils, tiny black holes adjusting themselves ever so slightly, the brown iris around, the blink of long eyelashes. Hey, Tess, do you see anything? Anything beautiful left in there?
    I wince and step back quickly. In a drawer I find scissors, and I cut my tangled hair into a bob and work with it until the brush runs through. The slices of hair fall in wet, scraggly tangles with one clean-cut edge. I find a pair of Libby’s clean underwear and sweatpants and a tank top and a T-shirt, and I pull them on.
    Back in the bathroom, I sit on the toilet seat and rub lotion into my desert skin. I rub ointment into my feet, rub a swath on my crotch in the hope it might help the ache that is thrumming there. I find a pad of Libby’s and stick it in my underwear to catch the blood that keeps seeping. I stand to gingerly brush my teeth, lift my lip so that I can see the raw tissue, see there is a pocket of pus, and swish my mouthout with peroxide and water. I look at myself again. Think: Morality is something we can smell on people, and you still stink .
    *
    All life starts in the kitchen, but I cannot find any alcohol in any of the cupboards to start my endeavor. I turn on the radio in search of distraction or news, but it’s not the right time of day, and there’s only country-western. I crack my neck to try to work out The Antsy and The Nervous. I offer myself a banana and a cracker and some kind of fizzy iced tea that I find in a jar in the fridge. I offer it all carefully to my body. I offer myself ibuprofen from a bottle I find in the bathroom, Percocets I find tucked in the back of their nightstand, underneath some pillowcases and reading glasses.
    Now I barefoot-wander the house, into the strange nooks and crannies, the sunroom, the tomatoes and basil growing out of hydroponic plastic bottles. My feet pad over the hard smooth gray floor, wander into rooms of jeweled sunlight made by different-colored wine bottles. There is a pattern to the colors of this house, and it takes me a moment to place it. North-facing walls are all a purple blue, the west walls are sage, east are peach, south are yellow. I remember this, something about the best way to capture sunlight, make every angle pleasing to the eyes.
    I end up in front of the mirror again to doublecheck Tess is there. The room is well lit with a bright burning series of bulbs, and it is clean and only has a small clutter of knickknacks-of-selfcare, and beyond that is a woman in a mirror.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  The eyes of Tess are so darkbrown liquid shiny and still they are there.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Tess remembers her eighteen-year-old self,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  fine dark hair whipping around her face
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  as she leans out the truck’s window and sing-songs goodbye, Libby, goodbye, take care of that baby, I’m driving off with mine ,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  smiling at herself in the rearview mirror,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  smile with a dimple, beautiful teeth, dark alive eyes, gorgeous hope,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  as if that man and that truck were going to take her great