The rest stop ladies' room smelled like piss and flies clustered around the bare fluorescent blubs over the cracked sink. The bright light hurt after being in the dark for so long and her tired, oh, so tired eyes watered, but she stared at the marvel of artificial light anyway. Marcia hovered over the filthy toilet as best she could while drip-drying and wished she had thought to bring in some napkins from the car. The sink knobs just spun, dry as the wells around this part of the world, which, Marcia reflected, was lucky because the cloth loop provided as a way to dry clean hands was beyond disgusting and edging on to, perhaps, sentience.
Why she even bothered to try rest areas when going into the woods would be cleaner was subconsciously clear to her: it was a sign of human life. A rare thing these days.
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