Public bathrooms are creepy. We can all agree on that, right? Even at their cleanest they feel dirty, like they can get on your shoes and follow you home.

I never used them. Used to be able to go only twice a day—before leaving the house and right when I got home—until I got stuck on a long layover and nearly peed myself. After that it was like, what’s worse? Public bathrooms or wet pants?

My brother, though… I think mom drilled “use the bathroom before we hit the road!” into his head so hard he’s conditioned to pee whenever he sees an exit. That’s given him a bladder that can only hold for two hours. Maybe three.

Which is why I ended up in a bathroom at a rest stop, with gaps in the door you could fit a ping pong ball through and one single light over the sink, so each stall was cast deep in the shadows. I tried to convince myself I didn’t need this, but I’d had too much coffee and gas station food and my body wanted to lose some weight. At the slightest hesitation I broke into one of those cold, swampy sweats, my stomach cramping.

I’m on the toilet, awkwardly holding my shorts away from the crusty porcelain and the damp floor, trying to coax my sphincters into letting out all the bad, when the door opens. The main door. I hear the birds go loud, then quiet, then the soft slush of shoes on tile, an unsteady and geriatric gait. The gap goes dark as a shadow passes between me and the light. I don’t look up. I hate making eye contact with people through the door. I do see their shoes. Crocs and socks.

I hate this person.

They chose the stall next to me. No one talks about it, but if someone’s stalling there’s a chance it’s going to smell. And the noises? Unspoken bathroom etiquette: never take the stall next to someone, not if you have other options.

I hear a grunt and my insides freeze, all my progress lost. Great. Another grunt, then a slam on the thin wall between us. The whole thing shakes. I almost drop my shorts, then something flops out from under the gap.

A croc, with socks, and something else. Tights? Fleshy, skin-toned, stretched out tights riddled with silver hairs.

The wall shudders, and from above I hear another grunt, then a, “‘Scuse me.”

I don’t know why I looked up. Raised too polite, or too stupid. There were gnarled, clawed fingers wrapped over the top of the stall, bright and glistening like strawberries or skinned knees, delicately gloved in a puss-colored organic wrap. And above those, a head, just as gristled, wiry hair bristling through the meat on its scalp. And eyes, yeah, it had eyes, looking down at me. I wish it didn’t.

“‘Scuse me,” it repeated. “My skin touched the floor. Could I use yours?”