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There are others here dressed in long, oversized shawls and full head and face coverings, no skin visible but the open slit that allows them to see. Two workers are running handheld vacuums, sweeping up the ash that falls from our clothes.

I give Marcus a quick glance before we’re separated, him stepping through one door while I step through another.

I’m in a small, brightly lit vestibule, everything white. There’s a bench, a hook on the wall with something hanging on it, and a sign on the wall with instructions.

Fully disrobe and put all clothes and belongings in the provided bag. Leave your bag here and enter the next chamber through the door. No clothing or personal items are allowed in the showers. Your bag will be returned prior to your departure. Thank you for your understanding.

Marta Smythe Designs

I read the instructions twice, not showing a reaction in case I’m being recorded. This is classic New America. Servants are treated like livestock. They can’t even pick up designer clothing that likely costs more than they’re paid in a year without getting naked and bathing.

Mae is enduring much worse than this. I get the bag from the hook and quickly remove my shoes and socks, stuffing them in the bag. I follow with my shirt and bra. I left my weapons in my pack, so I already feel naked anyway.

I hesitate before taking the dampener off. But I have no choice, so I untie it and add it to the bag.

Pain floods my senses. I take in a deep breath and let it out. It’s not as bad as it was right before we reached the cave. I wonder if it’s because we’re underground.

I’m too close to Mae to let the pain slow me down. I finish undressing, cinching the bag closed once it’s full of my stuff and setting it on the bench.

The next door leads to a vestibule the same size as the first one. This one is made of stainless steel and has small holes all over, like the inside of a washing machine.

“Close eyes and mouth,” a robotic female voice says. “Beginning in three seconds.”

I follow the instructions, and when the three seconds are up, air blows in from all the little holes, blasting against me in every direction. My hair flies wildly around me. When I crack an eye open, the ash that was in my hair and on my face is airborne.

After about fifteen seconds, the air stops and the ash slowly settles on the ground. A whirring sound like a vacuum starts up as ash is sucked into the holes on the floor of the chamber.

A red light above the next door turns green, and I open it.

When I step into the next chamber, it’s also a small, stainless stall, and there are no holes in the walls, but the floor has a large, round drain. There are four showerheads on three walls and four on the ceiling.

“Beginning in three seconds,” the female voice says.

Water shoots out of the showerheads, power-washing me. After about half a minute, the automated voice tells me to turn, so I do.

When the water shuts off, I take a deep breath, sweeping back the hair covering my face. I feel like a plucked chicken.

There’s a click as the wall without showerheads opens slightly. Covering my breasts with one arm, I use my free hand to gingerly open the door, peeking around it.

It’s another vestibule with a drain in the floor. A gray towel hangs from one hook on the wall and a plain gray cotton robe with three-quarter sleeves hangs on another. Flimsy, disposable rubber flip-flops sit beside the doorway.

I dry myself and then put the robe on. It comes to my knees and zips from the bottom up to my neck. When I slide into the slippers, I’m transported back to the days when I got pedicures.

This whole process is absurd, but also, it’s nice to finally be clean. The ashes got into places I never would have imagined.

The final door leads to a bigger room. Two people dressed in sleek, fitted clothing are the only two people in the room.

“Hello. I’m Nix,” the one closest to me says.

They have high cheekbones, their black hair cut super short on the back and sides with slightly longer curls on top.

“Hi,” I say, looking around the room.

There are eight doors. I wonder if that’s how many air and shower stalls there are. A door across the room opens and a woman steps out. She’s dressed in the same robe and slippers I am.

“Hey, Annie,” the other black-clad attendant says. “I think Mrs. Yost is going to be floored by the gown. Our seamstresses spent more than eighty hours sewing the beads into it.”

“Can we hurry?” Annie says. “Mrs. Yost wants a pair of shoes in this order for dinner tonight.”