paying very close attention, but she was sure that no one had come in since she had started her laundry. The laundromat was always slow on Tuesdays. Most people were at their jobs, doing something important to help the world or the economy, and she couldn't help but envy them. After all, what did she do?
Laundry.
Harriet started the wash cycle on the first machine and began with the next. She reached into the bag of dirty clothes and pulled out one of Nicholas' shirts, a nearly unrecognizable bundle of red cotton and mud. Saturday had brought one of the worst storms of the Spring so far, and afterwards, Harriet told Nicholas he could go play with his friend Josh, General Landen's son, who lived just down the road (Nicholas only ever had military friends, a fact Harriet often regretted). Harriet found comfort in the temporary silence when he was gone. Meanwhile, the boys were running to the field behind the recreation center, where Josh had discovered what he said was a cave. Just days earlier, the base started construction on a new outdoor pool, currently just an enormous pit in the ground, now filled with a few inches of water. To a six-year-old, this was irresistible. The sweatshirt that Harriet had made Nicholas wear, so as to avoid getting a cold, was balled up, stiff, and contorted in an odd twisted shape, the mud now a solid mass. She shook her head, opened a third washer, and threw the shirt inside.
Nicholas and Josh often played war together, running through the neighborhood with sticks bent at right angles to make a perfect replica of a gun. But not replica. Just gun. Sticks they must have searched for all morning. They would climb into trees, pluck off an onslaught of robbers, warriors, and the occasional sparrow. They played war because it was fun. Because when they ran and the wind blew back their hair, they knew they were free. Because when a grenade landed at Josh's feet, Nicholas never hesitated to throw
himself upon it, saving his dear friend from utter devastation. Then he would get up, brush himself off, and jump up and down, shooting his gun in the air, celebrating his bravery. Every day they fought tougher enemies, received new medals and better ranks, and lived to tell about it the on the next. No consequences. No responsibilities. Just a perpetual pile of dirty clothes.
�Looks like laundry day,� said a voice behind Harriet. She spun around, dropping several quarters in the process, and they scattered in several directions on impact across the laundromat floor. Instead of chasing after them, Harriet studied the man now in front of her, on the other side of the folding tables. She had seen him before. At the laundromat, that is. He was was a man of average height. Somewhat taller and a bit scrawny. His collar bone protruded significantly, making it seem as though his neck had sunken down into his body slightly. And he was balding. What sporadic hairs remained on the top of his head were pulled across from left to right in a greasy streak, and he kept matting them down with his nervous, greasy hands. She hadn't heard the bell on the front door, nor had she heard him come up behind her. When she noticed the open office door in the back of the room, she remembered that he had introduced himself as the owner at one point in time, though his name still eluded her. He was wearing a button-down plaid shirt and tattered jeans, both of which were blanketed with stains. Whether it was paint or something else, Harriet couldn't be certain, but she thought it strange that such a man would have an establishment where people came to make their lives clean again. The skin all over his body seemed to glisten. He looked slippery. Slick. Like he could slide his way out of any situation.
The office of the laundromat was a simple small room tucked in