I’d never been in Beouf’s bathroom before. Not surprising, all things considered, but in the quiet of the moment I took a minute to observe. It wasn’t that different from mine, actually. Roughly the same dimensions.
The toilet that I sat on was, in fact, a toilet; and not a potty. It was hooked up to the plumbing. No cutesy decorations. Near as I could see, it was the same white porcelain and black seat, too. Nothing too infantile. It was sized for me, but so was the toilet in my classroom.
That probably meant it was very clean, considering how long it had been since it had been used. Last person who had tried to use it was about to be shipped to Oakshire’s premier public brainwashing facility; and that was months ago. Beouf certainly wouldn’t want to use it; her knees would almost go up to her chest, funny image though that was.