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temperature rest holding the mash at specific temperatures to optimize enzymatic activity

THE SHOWER spray hit my skin like liquid ice, jolting me fully awake with a gasp that echoed off the tiled walls. I'd miscalculated again—Mrs. Garcia had beaten me to the shower house again.

"Come on, come on," I muttered through chattering teeth, squeezing shampoo into my palm with numb fingers. The floral-scented soap dispenser on the wall had been refilled with something that smelled aggressively like fake jasmine.

I scrubbed and rinsed with military efficiency, my skin prickling with goosebumps as I hurried through the routine.

In the adjoining dressing room, I toweled off and pulled on clean clothes—jeans and the least wrinkled of my t-shirts.

I plugged my hair dryer into the outlet mounted next to the mirror and flipped the switch, grateful for the blast of warm air.

My reflection stared back at me under the harsh fluorescent lighting, pale and ordinary.

My mother used to say I had an "interesting" face—which I'd always interpreted as a polite way of saying I wasn't conventionally pretty.

My eyes were too large for my face, my nose had a slight bump from a childhood accident, and my mouth seemed to exist in a perpetual state of uncertainty.

"You have a unique look," a photography teacher had told me once during a brief stint at community college. "Very expressive features."

Unique. Another word that felt like consolation prize.

I thought about Dylan's easy smile yesterday, the way his eyes had crinkled at the corners when he laughed. There had been something genuine in his attention, something that made my stomach flutter with possibility. When he'd looked at me, I'd felt seen.

Then Jett's face intruded on the memory. Irritated. Impatient. Like I was an inconvenience he had to manage.

My phone buzzed against the wooden bench where I'd set it, the vibration amplified by the hollow space underneath. The notification banner showed a message from someone named Susan Klooz. I held my breath as I read the words.

Hi Bernadette! I don't think I'm the Suzy you're looking for.

I've never been to Kentucky. But this is weird.

.. I actually know another Suzy Klooz! Our zip codes are similar, so I got a package meant for her once from Amazon.

She lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. Not sure if that helps, but thought I'd mention it just in case! Good luck with your search!

My hands trembled as I typed back: That helps tremendously! Thank you so much for taking the time to respond.

Cincinnati. Less than two hours from here, practically next door in the context of my nationwide search. I opened a new browser tab and searched for " Suzy Klooz Cincinnati Ohio," my heart hammering against my ribs.

The results loaded slowly on the campground's Wi-Fi, but there it was—Susan Klooz, age 52, associated with an address on Easter Street. The address felt solid, the woman felt real. A woman who might've been my mother's best friend, who might know the name of the man who'd contributed half my DNA.

I couldn't make the trip today because I'd promised Poppy we'd go to the library, and this afternoon was an all-hands meeting at the campground to talk about a rash of petty thievery.

Plus I needed to wait until after I got paid tomorrow to splurge for the extra gas. But I could make the trip Monday.

Which couldn't come soon enough.