Not that it mattered. I was just curious.

With a hot washcloth, I wiped blood out of my chest hair and off the tracts of skin not gouged open, scrubbing myself clean so I could apply bandages to my injuries. The phantom smell of Billie haunted me until I realized where it was coming from: she’d left my t-shirt in the bathroom. I set the cloth down for the t-shirt, unfolding and holding it open, examining where her blood encrusted the collar. Her scent saturated the fabric under the arms and ...