Jane’s eyes stung, and her crotch itched, but at least her hair was clean, and she smelled good. She’d even come to enjoy the sensation of fresh clean paper over damp nakedness, the closest one came in Troupe life to padding around in terry cloth with your hair in a towel. Outside the command yurt, the camp rang with bestial howls as Ed Dunnebecke poured another big kettleful of scalding water into the fabric tub. Hot water felt so lovely—at least till the pores opened and Ed’s sheep dip started to bite.