“I hate laundry day,” Kaylee said bitterly as she lugged a duffel bag of her clothes into the cargo hold. River was just behind her, walking dreamily, like a dancer through a staged set, her eyes looking everywhere but in front of her.

“Continuing to wear soiled apparel is considered unhygienic and reduces social status in most cultures,” River explained, as if this was news to Kaylee. She had her own clothes in hand – by ship tradition, Men and Women did laundry on different days. No one was sure why – there seemed little point at shyness for a ship as small as Serenity – but that was spacer tradition, and Travelers of all stripes were more-or-less bound by it. There was also a tradition that everyone did their own laundry. It didn’t matter if you were the Captain of a Core-world Metroliner or the lowest mate on the junkiest tramp freighter. Laundry was a personal thing in space. It had taken River several weeks to understand that, under Kaylee’s guidance. Of course, she hadn’t had much in the way of clothing upon her emergence from cryogenic sleep, so it hadn’t been much of an issue back then.

“I know why we do it. I just hate doin’ it, is all,” Kaylee said matter-of-factly. “It ain’t like at home, where you chucked ‘em in a tub o’ suds, or paid Ms. Kee to take them down to the river.”

“They do not smell the same way,” River agreed, dumping her clothes out chaotically on the deck. Growing up, her clothes had never even gotten close to a river rock, but even machine-washed and servant-folded laundry had a fresher smell. Kaylee picked another spot on the deck and dumped hers. “Clean clothes should smell fresh, like a mountain breeze,” she said, wistfully. “Or like carefully combined chemical compounds designed to elicit a positive olfactory response, leading in turn to the purchase of more detergent."

“I don’t see no mountains, crazy girl.” Kaylee kicked her clothes around haphazardly with her foot until they were spread more or less evenly on the deck. River sat down gracefully and spread h