I stood on the cold linoleum outside while the plastic rings scraped across the metal.

“Can you reach the zipper?” she asked from behind the curtain.

I pushed the curtain aside and squeezed in.

There was barely room for both of us, and it smelled of floor wax and stale rose perfume.

The navy gown hung loose across her chest, the shoulder seams sitting two inches down her arms.

The zipper was stuck halfway up her back, rusted in place from years in somebody’s damp basement.

“Don’t yank on it,” I said, reaching for the metal tab.