Winter Unclothed
Copyright© 2026 by Kate Evergreen
Chapter 6: December 3rd Walking Home
The first week of the month passes 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.
People stare at me. They whisper about me. They take photos of me. I see them on their phones, their cameras pointed in my direction. I hear the clicks and the shutter sounds. I hear the whispers and the gasps.
“She’s crazy.”
“Did you see what she’s wearing?”
“Is she okay?”
“Someone should do something.”
I don’t respond. I don’t explain. I just keep walking.
I walk through the cold. I walk through the whispers. I walk through everything, and I don’t feel a thing.
But something is changing. Something is happening. I can feel it.
I feel like I’m becoming something else. I feel like I’m shedding more than just clothes. I feel like I’m shedding the ghost.
I think about the man in the library. I think about his questions. I think about the answers I’m starting to find.
I think about the layers. The layers I’ve shed. The layers I still have to shed.
I think about what’s underneath.
I’m starting to find out.
On Monday morning, I walk to campus. The temperature is in the single digits. The wind is blowing. My skin is exposed to the air. Everything is exposed.
I walk across the Washington Avenue Bridge. I stop in the middle to look at the river. The river is still frozen. The ice is thick and grey. The chunks of ice are still stuck together.
But the cracks are getting wider.
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 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 different happens.
I’m walking across campus. The sun is rising. The light is thin and grey. The snow is falling, light and dry, the kind of snow that doesn’t stick but somehow makes everything colder.
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. He’s a young man, maybe a sophomore, with a red face and a determined expression.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey, you.”
I stop. I look at him.
“What are you doing?” he asks. “Why are you walking around like that?”
I think about the question. I think about the answer.
“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 answer.
“Because I don’t want to,” I say.
He looks at me. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what to do.
“But “ He stops. He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.
I look at him. I look at his red face. I look at his confusion.
“I’m not hurting anyone,” I say. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just walking to class.”
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he steps back. He 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 Wednesday morning, I’m walking across campus when 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 blanket.
She steps forward as I approach.
“Excuse me,” she says. “I don’t want to bother you. But I have this blanket. I thought you might want it.”
I look at the blanket. It’s thick and warm. It’s the kind of blanket you’d use to keep warm 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’m not,” I say. “I don’t feel the cold.”
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 blanket 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 Thursday morning, I’m walking across campus when 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. She’s a young woman, maybe a freshman, with a phone in her hand.
“Can I take a picture with you?” she asks.
I stop. I look at her.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s just “ She stops. She doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.
I look at her. I look at her phone. I look at her friends behind her.
“Okay,” I say.
She steps next to me. She holds up her phone. She takes a photo.
“Thanks,” she says. “This is going to get so many likes.”
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, I’m walking across campus when I see a man standing on the sidewalk. He’s younger, maybe in his thirties, with a beard and a concerned expression.
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 look at him. I look at his concerned face. I look at his worried eyes.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I don’t need help.”
“Are you sure? It’s freezing out here. You must be cold.”
I think about the question. I think about the answer.
“I’m not,” I say. “I don’t feel the cold.”
He looks at me. He doesn’t understand. But he doesn’t push.
“Okay,” he says. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“I know,” I say. “Thank you.”
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 Friday night, I walk to the library. I walk through the stacks. 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 sit down. I take off my bag. I put it on the floor.
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.
How is it going?
I read the words. I think about them. How is it going? I don’t know how to answer that question.
I don’t know, I write.
Yes, you do.
I read the words. I think about them. Yes, I do. I know how it’s going. I just don’t know how to put it into words.
It’s going okay. People stare. People whisper. Some people try to help. Some people take photos. But I keep walking.
That’s good.
He writes something else.
What have you learned?
I read the words. I think about them. What have I learned? I don’t know. I’ve learned a lot. I’ve learned that people are curious. I’ve learned that people are kind. I’ve learned that people are cruel.
But I’ve also learned something else.
I’ve learned that I don’t need the layers.
Good.
He writes something else.
What about the bag?
I read the words. I think about them. The bag. The bag over my shoulder. The one thing I haven’t shed.
I’m not ready to let go of it yet.
Why?
I think about the question. Why can’t I let go of the bag? I don’t know. I need it. I need something to carry. I need something to hold onto.
I need something to carry.
Why?
I think about the question. Why do I need something to carry? I don’t know. I don’t know why I need it. But I do.
I don’t know.
Then keep thinking about it.
I read the words. I think about them. Keep thinking about it. Keep thinking about why I need the bag.
I don’t know if I’ll find the answer. But I’ll keep thinking.
We sit in silence. The library hums. The river flows. The hours pass.
Then he writes something else.
When are you going to walk home?
I read the words. I think about them. Walk home. I’ve been walking to campus naked for weeks. But I haven’t walked home naked. Not all the way. Not across the bridge.
I don’t know.
Tonight.
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