He tried everything — squeezing them, flipping the shirt under the heater, patting his shoes dry with toilet paper. The floor was puddled, the mirror fogged. He stared at his reflection—his face red, eyes tired, breath short. He looked like a man begging the world not to look too closely.
He ran to the laundromat, shoes squelching, damp sleeves sticking to his arms. He stepped through the door at six-thirty. The man behind the counter didn’t look up right away. When he did, he gave a half-frown. “You’re late,” he said. “That guy came in on time.”