Chapter 9: December 24th First Day

The morning after Lars gives me the rules, I wake up, and I feel different. I can’t explain it. I can’t describe it. But I feel different. Something has shifted. Something has changed. Something inside me has cracked open, like the ice cracking on the river. The way the ice is breaking up. The way the water is starting to flow.

I stand up. I walk to the window. I look out at the world. The snow is still falling. The world is still white. The streets are still empty.

But something is different.

I don’t know what it is. I don’t know how to name it. But something is different.

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 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 last thing I’m holding onto.

I think about what it would be like to let it go.

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 wave. It’s been cold for weeks, months, years. But this is different. This is sharper. This is more present. This is the cold I used to feel before I stopped feeling anything.

I feel it on my skin. I feel it in my bones. I feel it in my breath.

I feel alive.

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 rules. I think about the bag. I think about why I started.

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.

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. He’s a young man, maybe a junior, with a determined expression on his face. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, the kind of person who’s used to getting what he wants.

“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 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.

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 confused face. I look at his angry eyes.

“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 closer. He’s invading my space. He’s trying to intimidate me.

“You’re making people uncomfortable,” he says. “You’re making me uncomfortable.”

I think about the question. I think about the rules. No explanations.

“That’s not my problem,” I say.

He steps closer. He’s right in front of me now. He’s towering over me. He’s trying to use his size to make me back down.

“Put some clothes on,” he says. “Or I’m going to call the police.”

I think about the question. I think about the rules. No explanations.

“Go ahead,” I say.

He looks at me. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s not used to people not backing down.

“I’m serious,” he says.

“So am I.”

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 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 fifties, with grey hair and a kind face. She’s holding a coat.

She steps forward as I approach.

“Excuse me,” she says. “I don’t want to bother you. But I have this coat. I thought you might want it.”

I look at the coat. It’s thick and warm. It’s the kind of coat you’d use to keep warm in the winter.