Winter Unclothed
Copyright© 2026 by Kate Evergreen
Chapter 13: January 21st Mall
The days after I let go of the bag pass in a blur of grey light and cold air and the feeling of skin against the world. I wake up every morning and I don’t put on any clothes. I walk to the kitchen. I drink my coffee. 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.
And I don’t carry anything.
I am naked. I am exposed. I am nothing. I am everything.
I am free.
I walk to campus every morning. 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 bag. The bag in the snow. The bag I let go of.
I think about what it felt like to let it go.
I think about how I don’t need it anymore.
I think about how I’m free.
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.
And I don’t carry 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 sophomore, with a curious expression on her face.
“Excuse me,” she says. “Are you the woman from the photo?”
I stop. I look at her.
“What photo?”
“The photo of you on the bridge. Dropping the bag. In the snow. It’s been all over social media.”
I think about the photo. I think about being seen.
“Yes,” I say. “That was me.”
She looks at me. She doesn’t understand. But she doesn’t push.
“Why did you do it?” she asks. “Why did you drop the bag?”
I think about the question. I think about the answer. Why did I drop the bag? Because I didn’t need it anymore. Because I wanted to be free. Because I wanted to let go of everything I was carrying.
“Because I didn’t need it anymore,” I say. “Because I wanted to be free.”
She looks at me. She doesn’t understand. But she doesn’t push.
“Okay,” she says. “I just wanted to know.”
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.
And I don’t carry 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 newspaper.
She steps forward as I approach.
“Excuse me,” she says. “I don’t want to bother you. But I saw the photo. In the newspaper. And I wanted to tell you something.”
I stop. I look at her.
“I think you’re brave,” she says. “I think you’re doing something important. I don’t understand it. But I think it’s important.”
I think about the words. Brave. Important. That’s what other people have said.
“Thank you,” I say.
She nods. She steps back.
“Take care of yourself,” she 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.
And I don’t carry 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 see a man standing on the sidewalk. He’s younger, maybe in his thirties, with a beard and a concerned expression. He’s holding a phone.
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 doing something that matters,” he says. “I don’t know what it is. But I think it matters.”
I think about the words. Matters. That’s what he said. Matters.
“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.
And I don’t carry anything.
On Wednesday night, I walk to the library. I walk through the stacks. I passed the history section, the sociology section, and the philosophy section. I turn the corner toward my usual table.
He’s there.
He’s sitting in the same seat, wearing the same coat, looking at the same river.
I walk up to the table. I sat down. I don’t have a bag to take off.
He looks at me. He looks at my naked body. He looks at my bare skin. He doesn’t say anything.
I don’t say anything.
We sit in silence. The library hums. The river flows. The hours pass.
Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the notebook. He writes something. He slides it across the table.
You’re ready for the next step.
I read the words. I think about them. Ready. Ready for the next step.
What is it?
Go to the mall.
I read the words. I think about them. The mall. The Mall of America.
Why?
Because a mall is a place where everyone is performing. You’ll be the only one who isn’t.
I read the words. I think about them. Performing. That’s what I used to do. That’s what I stopped doing.
What am I supposed to do there?
Be there. All day. From open to close. Let them see you.
I read the words. I think about them. Be there. All day. Let them see me.
Okay.
Take the Blue Line to Bloomington. Walk through the mall. Sit in the food court. Visit the aquarium. Let them see you.
I read the words. I think about them. The aquarium. The food court. The mall.
Okay.
He puts the notebook in his pocket. He looks at me.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “From open to close.”
I look at him. I look at his steady eyes. I look at his unreadable face.
“Okay,” I say.
The night passes. The library empties. The lights flicker. It’s time to go.
He stands up. He puts the notebook in his pocket. He looks at me.
“See you after,” he says.
And then he walks away.
I watch him go. I watch him disappear into the stacks.
I stand up. I walk out of the library. I don’t have a bag to carry.
I walk home through the cold. I feel the cold on my skin. I feel the wind on my face. I feel the snow on my shoulders.
I feel everything.
I walk home. 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 mall. The Mall of America. The place where everyone is performing.
I think about what it’s going to be like to walk through it naked.
I think about what it’s going to be like to be the only one who isn’t performing.
I walk home. I walk through the snow. I walk through the cold. I walk through the darkness.
I walk into my house. The house is dark and cold. I don’t turn on the lights. I don’t turn on the heat.
I walk through the dark to my bedroom. I lie down on my bed. I stare at the ceiling.
I think about the mall. The Mall of America. The place where everyone is performing.
I think about what it’s going to be like.
I close my eyes. I try to sleep. I lie there in the dark, in the cold, in the silence.
And I think about the days ahead.
I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know where this is going. I don’t know who I’m going to become.
But I’m going to find out.
I woke up on Thursday morning. The sun is rising. The light is grey and thin. The snow is still falling.
I stand up. I walk to the window. I look out at the world.
I don’t put on any clothes. I don’t need them.
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.
Brita is there too. She’s staying over again. She’s looking at me with concern in her eyes.
“Karen,” she says. “Where are you going today?”
I think about the question. Where am I going today? I’m going to the mall.
“The mall,” I say. “The Mall of America.”
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