He rips the shower curtain back, half the rings snapping off. He turns the sink on. Cold. He holds his hands under the stream, then splashes his face. The shock of it forces a gasp from his chest.

No hot water.

Fifteen minutes later, he turns off the water. He’s shaking, blue-lipped, but his eyes are clear. He towels off with a thin, scratchy towel that smells like bleach. He looks in the mirror again.

No hot water, Harley Dean.