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Ophie picked up the washrag and got back to cleaning the windows.

There are leaves piled up around it, and the windows have pink flaps over them, cut out from an old washrag.

She was wiping the dirt and grime from my face with a wet washrag when Papa tore through the front door.

“Do you have a washrag back there?” she asked.

“If you want water, you know where my pump is. There’s also a bathing station there. Bring a washrag. There’s bars of soap.”