Ever since Geraldine had taken to keeping her shampoo and cleansing gel in a hunter‑green canvas kit that traveled with her to and from the bathroom each day, Barrett felt free to accuse her of not liking Katrina. Liking had nothing to do with it. It was just that she didn’t get Katrina. Her unintended roommate was a twenty‑ something woman who dressed in rave pants and baby‑size T‑shirts, as if airing out her navel ring were more important than avoiding looking like she’d wandered in from the mid '90s. Barrett, too, was bepierced and no stranger to the Toronto rave scene — God, could there be three uglier words in the English language? — but at least he was serious about his work and in the process of losing his hair. His head now resembled a half‑blown‑off dandelion, which Geraldine found touching.