Winter Unclothed
Copyright© 2026 by Kate Evergreen
Chapter 11: January 7th — The Height of Winter
January arrives like a blade.
I wake up on the first day of the new year, and I feel it before I even open my eyes. The cold. It’s everywhere. It’s in the air. It’s in the walls. It’s in my bones. It’s the kind of cold that doesn’t just sit on your skin—it seeps into you. It becomes part of you. It reminds you that you’re alive.
I stand up. I walk to the window. I look out at the world.
The world is white. Everything is white. The snow has been falling for weeks, months, years. It feels like it’s been falling forever. The streets are buried. The houses are buried. The trees are buried. Everything is buried under layers and layers of snow.
And it’s still falling.
I don’t put on any clothes. I don’t need them. I haven’t needed them for weeks. I walk to the kitchen. Ingrid is there. She’s making coffee. She looks at me, at my nakedness. She doesn’t say anything.
She pours me a cup of coffee. She hands it to me. She doesn’t say anything.
I drink coffee. I sit at the kitchen table. I look out the window at the snow.
I think about the month. One month. It’s been almost four weeks now. I’ve been walking naked through the world for almost four weeks. I’ve been shedding layers. I’ve been shedding the ghost. I’ve been becoming myself.
And I’m almost there.
I think about the rules. The six rules. The six things I need to remember.
One. No clothes.
Two. No explanations.
Three. Stay in the district.
Four. Let them touch you.
Five. No one takes your bag.
Six. Don’t stop.
I think about the bag. The bag over my shoulder. The one thing I haven’t shed. I’ve let it go, but I’ve picked it back up. I’m not ready to let it go for good.
But I’m getting closer.
I finish my coffee. I stand up. I walk to the door. I put on my boots. I grab my bag. I sling it over my shoulder.
And I walk out into the cold.
The cold hits me like a wall. It’s the coldest day of the year so far. The temperature is below zero. The wind chill is below zero. The air is sharp and bitter. It cuts through me like a knife.
I feel it. I feel everything.
I walk to campus. I walk across the Washington Avenue Bridge. I stop in the middle to look at the river.
The river is still frozen. But the cracks are getting wider. The ice is breaking up. The water is starting to flow.
I stand there, naked, looking at the river. I think about the ice cracking. I think about the water starting to flow again.
I think about what that means for me.
I think about the month. One month. I’m almost done. I’m almost at the end.
I think about what happens at the end.
I don’t know. I don’t know what happens at the end. But I’m going to find out.
I walk to campus. I teach my classes. I have my meetings. I grade my papers. I do everything I’m supposed to do.
And I don’t wear anything.
On Monday morning, something different happens. I’m walking across campus. The sun is rising. The light is thin and grey. The snow is falling.
And I see a group of students standing in a circle. They’re looking at me. They’re whispering. One of them has a phone out.
I keep walking. I don’t slow down. I don’t speed up. I just keep walking.
One of them steps forward. She’s a young woman, maybe a junior, with a determined expression on her face.
“Hey,” she says. “Hey, you.”
I stop. I look at her.
“What are you doing?” she asks. “Why are you walking around like that?”
I think about the question. I think about the rules. No explanations.
“I’m walking to class,” I say.
“That’s not what I mean. Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”
I think about the question. I think about the rules. No explanations.
“I don’t want to,” I say.
She looks at me. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know what to do.
“But—” She stops. She doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.
I look at her. I look at her confused face. I look at her angry eyes.
“I’m not hurting anyone,” I say. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just walking to class.”
She looks at me for a long moment. Then she steps back. She doesn’t say anything else.
I keep walking.
I walk to campus. I teach my classes. I have my meetings. I grade my papers. I do everything I’m supposed to do.
And I don’t wear anything.
On Tuesday morning, something else happens. I’m walking across campus. The sun is rising. The light is thin and grey. The snow is falling.
And I see a woman standing on the sidewalk. She’s older, maybe in her sixties, with grey hair and a kind face. She’s holding a thermos.
She steps forward as I approach.
“Excuse me,” she says. “I don’t want to bother you. But I have some hot chocolate. I thought you might want it.”
I look at the thermos. It’s steaming in the cold air. It’s the kind of thermos you’d use to warm yourself up in the winter.
I look at her. I look at her kind face. I look at her concerned eyes.
“Thank you,” I say. “But I don’t need it.”
“You don’t need it? But it’s freezing out here. You must be cold.”
I think about the question. I think about the answer. I am cold. I’m shivering. I feel the cold on my skin.
But I don’t want the hot chocolate.
“I don’t want it,” I say. “Thank you.”
She looks at me. She doesn’t understand. But she doesn’t push.
“Okay,” she says. “I just wanted to help.”
“I know,” I say. “Thank you.”
She steps back. She holds the thermos against her chest. She watches me walk away.
I keep walking.
I walk to campus. I teach my classes. I have my meetings. I grade my papers. I do everything I’m supposed to do.
And I don’t wear anything.
On Wednesday morning, something different happens. I’m walking across campus. The sun is rising. The light is thin and grey. The snow is falling.
And I feel someone touch me.
It’s a light touch. A gentle touch. Someone’s hand on my arm.
I stop. I turn around.
It’s an older man. Maybe in his seventies. He has white hair and a kind face. He’s wearing a thick coat and a scarf and gloves.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t mean to bother you. But I wanted to ask if you’re okay.”
I think about the question. I think about the rules. Let them touch you. And then continue.
“I’m okay,” I say.
“Are you sure? It’s freezing out here. You must be cold.”
“I’m cold,” I say. “But I’m okay.”
He looks at me. He doesn’t understand. But he doesn’t push.
“I’ve been watching you,” he says. “I’ve been watching you walk across campus every day. And I wanted to tell you something.”
I wait.
“I think you’re doing something important,” he says. “I don’t understand it. But I think it’s important.”
I think about the words. Important. That’s what the other man said. Important.
“Thank you,” I say.
He takes his hand off my arm. He steps back.
“Stay warm,” he says. “Or don’t. Whatever you need to do.”
He smiles. He walks away.
I keep walking.
I walk to campus. I teach my classes. I have my meetings. I grade my papers. I do everything I’m supposed to do.
And I don’t wear anything.
On Thursday morning, something else happens. I’m walking across campus. The sun is rising. The light is thin and grey. The snow is falling.
And I see a group of students taking photos. They’re laughing. They’re pointing at me.
I keep walking. I don’t slow down. I don’t speed up. I just keep walking.
One of them steps forward. He’s a young man, maybe a sophomore, with a phone in his hand.
“Can I take a picture with you?” he asks.
I stop. I look at him.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s just—” He stops. He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.
I look at him. I look at his phone. I look at his friends behind him.
“Okay,” I say.
He steps next to me. He holds up his phone. He takes a photo.
“Thanks,” he says. “This is going to get so many likes.”
I think about the words. So many likes. I think about what that means. I think about how I’m being seen, but not in the way I want to be seen.
I don’t say anything. I just keep walking.
I walk to campus. I teach my classes. I have my meetings. I grade my papers. I do everything I’m supposed to do.
And I don’t wear anything.
On Friday morning, something different happens. I’m walking across campus. The sun is rising. The light is thin and grey. The snow is falling.
And I see a man standing on the sidewalk. He’s younger, maybe in his thirties, with a beard and a concerned expression. He’s wearing a heavy coat and a hat and gloves.
He steps forward as I approach.
“Excuse me,” he says. “I don’t want to be rude. But are you okay? Do you need help?”
I think about the question. I think about the rules. No explanations.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I don’t need help.”
“Are you sure? It’s freezing out here. You must be cold.”
“I’m cold,” I say. “But I’m okay.”
He looks at me. He doesn’t understand. But he doesn’t push.
“I’ve been seeing you,” he says. “I’ve been seeing you walk across campus every day. And I wanted to tell you something.”
I wait.
“I think you’re brave,” he says. “I think you’re doing something that most people couldn’t do.”
I think about the words. Brave. That’s what the older woman said. Brave.
“Thank you,” I say.
He nods. He steps back.
“Take care of yourself,” he says.
“I will,” I say.
I keep walking.
I walk to campus. I teach my classes. I have my meetings. I grade my papers. I do everything I’m supposed to do.
And I don’t wear anything.
On Saturday morning, something else happens. I’m walking across campus. The sun is rising. The light is thin and grey. The snow is falling.
And I see a group of students standing in a circle. They’re looking at me. They’re whispering. One of them has a phone out.
I keep walking. I don’t slow down. I don’t speed up. I just keep walking.
One of them steps forward. She’s a young woman, maybe a freshman, with a determined expression on her face.
“Hey,” she says. “Hey, you.”
I stop. I look at her.
“What are you doing?” she asks. “Why are you walking around like that?”
I think about the question. I think about the rules. No explanations.
“I’m walking to class,” I say.
“That’s not what I mean. Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”
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