Chapter 62: Chapter 62: Shower

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Chapter 62: Shower

The day’s competition ended with a score of two-to-one in favor of Room 290 Clara’s loss in chess balanced by Kairan’s two victories in the race and the arm-wrestling match. For the first time in weeks, it would be Room 280 bowing their heads the next morning, not the other way around.

They crossed the courtyard toward the dormitories amidst cheers that showed no signs of dying down. Children from rooms that, just hours earlier, hadn’t even known Room 290’s name followed them with their eyes; some reached out to touch Kairan’s shoulder as he passed, as if that contact might somehow transfer a bit of what they had just witnessed.

“You guys did it!” someone shouted a boy from Room 160 whom Kairan had never seen before.

“So much for being the last room,” another said, followed by laughter this time without any malice.

They entered the dormitory and the door closed behind them, abruptly cutting off the courtyard noise and plunging them into a silence that, after all that clamor, felt almost unnatural.

Peter was the first to break the quiet, bounding toward the bathroom corridor. “I’m showering first,” he announced, as if the matter were already settled. “I spent the whole afternoon running back and forth after you two; I’ve earned it.”

“You didn’t run at all,” Gregory said. “You just stood there watching, like everyone else.”

“I watched with a lot of energy,” Peter said, already halfway down the hall. “That counts.”

“And what if someone wants to wash up before dinner without freezing water?” Samuel asked, but Peter had already vanished around the corner.

“Too late,” Gregory said, laughing. “Get ready for cold water same as always.”

No one really stopped him. Gregory let himself sink onto his bed with a satisfied sigh, his arms behind his head. Samuel sat on the edge of his mattress, still wearing a look of semi-disbelief, as if silently replaying everything he had seen to convince himself it had really happened. Clara picked up her book but didn’t open it right away, staring at the cover for a moment without really seeing it. Victor took off his shoes and lay down, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Kairan crossed the room to his bed and lay down without even removing his shoes; his body felt suddenly heavy now that the adrenaline from the courtyard was fading. His scratched arms were stinging again, the dried blood pulling at his skin with every slight movement.

A few minutes passed before Amara appeared beside his bed holding a small tin box; its faded label bore a description of the contents in letters too worn to be clearly read.

“Hold still,” she said, sitting on the edge of the mattress without asking permission. She opened the box and took out a roll of gauze and a small bottle.

“I don’t need it,” Kairan said.

“You certainly do,” Amara replied, taking his arm with a gentleness that contrasted with the firmness of her voice. “You were rolling around on packed dirt with open wounds. If you don’t clean it properly, it’ll get infected and *then* you’ll have a real problem.”

She poured some liquid from the bottle onto the gauze, and as she dabbed it over his scraped elbow, Kairan felt a sharp sting shoot through his arm. He didn’t move or wince, but Amara noticed it anyway. “You can pretend it doesn’t matter,” she said, never stopping her careful cleaning of the wound, “but I know it hurts. It hurts everyone.”

“I didn’t say it didn’t hurt.”

“No, but you’ve got that look.” She finished cleaning the elbow and moved to the knee, lifting his pant leg slightly to get a better angle on the wound. “That ‘I don’t want to show it’ look. I know it well.”

Kairan watched her work in silence for a moment. “How do you know?”

Amara shrugged, not looking up, focused on the gauze. “I make that face too, sometimes.”

She finished bandaging the knee, then moved to his arms, wrapping a strip of gauze around the more heavily scratched forearm and securing it with a knot that spoke of years of practice.

“There,” she said, leaning back to admire her handiwork. “It’ll be better by tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Kairan said.

Amara smiled at him, then stood up and closed the tin box. “Next time, try winning without getting trampled,” she said, though there was no hint of reproach in her tone.

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“I know. I just wanted to say something nice before heading off to take my own shower since I imagine Peter is already using up all the hot water.”

As if on cue, a muffled shout drifted in from the bathroom corridor Peter complaining about the water being too cold, followed by laughter from someone in another room who happened to be passing by.

One by one, the occupants of Room 290 began taking their showers.

Peter, who had announced his intention before even entering the room, was the first to disappear into the hallway without needing to say another word.

“Bartholomew’s face,” he said upon returning with dripping hair, “is something I’ll remember for years.”

“No one understood what was happening,” Gregory said.

“I never would have gotten that angry,” Samuel said to Kairan.

“Getting angry doesn’t help,” he replied.

Next came Clara, then Lena who left with a faint smile, saying nothing and then Victor, silent as ever.

“It all starts over tomorrow,” Peter said while they waited. “You can’t win every day.”

“I can try,” Kairan said.

It was Samuel’s turn, then Gregory’s. “Amara goes after you,” the latter said before disappearing. “She always takes the longest.”

“That’s not true,” Amara said without looking up.

Kairan got up for his turn, his body weary and the bandages pulling slightly. When he returned, only Amara was left; she headed off last, as always.

“I like the silence at the end of the day,” she said.

When she came back, everyone stood up together, ready for dinner.