"No, of course I've never washed clothes by hand before." She drawls while choking out a pair of pants and submerging them underwater like a crime lord whose waterpark vacation has been rudely interrupted by business. You can almost hear the gurgling scream. Almost.

Gerry manages to coax a small laugh from her. It's biting cold— but a laugh nonetheless. "Not into witch's cauldrons? I'm surprised. You look like you'd be a natural. Were you brewing a couple potions in the toilet, too? Some bleach and ammonia?" Mustard gas; a witch's favorite concoction, no?

"Dye?"

At that, Carolina straightens. Shakes water from her hands and wipes beads of sweat from her brow.

"You're dying things?" A disapproving look at her own bucket of clothes; too bright, too frilly, too impractical. She misses her sports bras and kevlar suits. "...Can I get in on that?"