The Poop That Lived...in a Sauna

Woodi's Story

She'd clearly been listening at the door for at least a couple minutes. Dan's ruddy complexion tinged with an unfortunate shade of sluggish mauve as he tried to gather his wits. Woodi smiled.

"Birthdays are hard," she said. Dan nodded.

"Yeah... hey, why are you here anyway?" he asked, then quickly backtracked. "Not that I'm, you know, upset to see you. Really good to see you," he continued, maybe a little too emphatically. Woodi laughed.

"You too dude!" she said. "I don't know, I just got the invite from your 'rents. Maybe they're trying to set us back up." her eyes glimmered waggishly. Dan's mauve became kind of an orchid-toned crimson.

"Well...tell me about your spooky dig site!" he diverted.

"That's some top secret info, my friend." Woodi noted in an undertone, glancing to either side of them. "I'll tell you though, but we gotta go somewhere private. Know what I mean?" Dan did.

The treehouse had been there when they moved in, but basically just the bones. Pops had singlehandedly reinforced the floorboards, roof and walls with red oak panels, and Woodi and Dan had painted the whole thing and added a pulley system (bucket and rope). When they were twelve, all they'd wanted to do was sit in the treehouse and pretend to be pirates, hauling "grog" (grape soda) onto their "ship" and drunkenly telling fake crewmates to walk the plank. A couple years later, when they started to date, the vessel served as an equally ideal place to do other kinds of adventurous things.

Dan and Woodi looked up at their old hideout. It hadn't aged terribly, but it definitely needed some maintenance. The wood looked soft and mealy, and the rope they used to haul grog was frayed, maybe chewed by squirrels. The paint, which had started out as bold stripes of green, purple, and red, was so chipped that chips were all that remained—meager splotches of color every few feet.

"Ladies first," Dan swept an arm gracefully toward the woe-begotten ladder dangling from the trapdoor. Woodi stuck her tongue out at him and launched herself at the ladder without hesitation. It held, and she disappeared through the door at the top within the span of a few seconds.

"Dans second!" Woodi called. Dan looked doubtfully at the crumbling ladder, then down at himself. It might've held for Woodi, but he could easily eat three Woodis for breakfast and still be hungry by noon. Speaking of which...his stomach grumbled and he realized he hadn't had a bite since the morning's cereal. Pushing his hunger aside, he shoved his boot onto a foothold and started scaling the ladder. The rope was stronger than it looked, even after years of neglect, and he, too, made it to the top without issue.

The light inside the treehouse was dim and the air stuffy. Dan and Woodi crouched on opposite ends, trap door between them.

"Definitely cozier than I remember," Dan said, feeling unexpectedly awkward around his old friend. He felt small, boyish, in the treehouse, as if he'd never outgrown it. But Woodi was different, seemed to surpass the childishness of their shared hideout. She drummed her fingers on the wood floor, gave Dan a sly smile, and it hit him. "Woodi... what happened to your finger?" Woodi straightened up, rubbed her nose sheepishly before presenting her hand for inspection. The middle finger on her right hand was shiny and metallic. She wiggled it back and forth, and it made a slight clicking sound. Dan couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before.

"It's a long story. But that's actually why I wanted us to come up here." Woodi told him while he ogled.

"Is this, was this, did this happen when you were in Sri Lanka?" Dan asked, glancing from her prosthetic finger to her face and back again.