Yeah, but their problems don't end.

After closing the heavy door behind her, she slumped against it, panting, believing for a single moment that she was safe. The silence of the locker room, only broken by the distant drip of a shower, was a temporary balm.

With feverish urgency, she opened her locker. She needed her clothes. She needed her baggy jeans, her big sweatshirt. She needed layers and more layers of fabric to bury herself, to make her disappear, to restore anonymity to her violated body.

And the emptiness.

There was nothing. Only the small mirror on the inside of the door, which reflected back the image of a stranger: reddened eyes, hair plastered to her skull in wet clumps, and that compressed, obscenely molded torso from the tiny shirt.

Everything was at home. Everything was just a bus ride away.

The reality came crashing down on her, cold and crushing like a slab. No. No, no, no. She couldn't go out into the street like this. She couldn't get on a bus, walk among people, become the street show she had already been inside the aquarium. A new kind of panic, more pragmatic than the previous humiliation, began to take hold of her. Her mind, clouded by shame, began to work frantically, desperately searching for a solution, any solution, that didn't involve traveling through the city half-naked.