The morning began in a shower stall with no mirror. rswfire had walked down to the shower house — six single-occupancy stalls, each with its own exterior door, each a small private box you enter from outside — and he brought the phone camera up in place of the mirror that wasn't there. He had been rotating through the stalls, one at a time on each visit, running an informal experiment to see whether any of the six kept the water on its own side. None had, so far. The wet area bled into the dressing area, and the floor stayed unusable: nothing set down, no socks, no footwear, everything held above the line. Shaving and moisturizing were out. He named the problem plainly — still working on that, it's challenging — and let it stand as an open item rather than a grievance.
Behind the shower stall was the reason he was up and moving. Eighty-five degrees ambient. Eighty-five percent humidity. He had not slept well the night before; the camper had held the wet heat all night and would hold it again. So the day had a shape already: shower, then the store, then a dehumidifier he did not have space for and could not see an alternative to. He mentioned the crystal desiccants too, and some other things he'd been thinking about — a list assembled over uncomfortable nights, being converted into a supply run.
Before he left the shower house he delivered a small public service announcement to whoever else used those stalls: point the shower head away before you turn the water on. He described the moment of being blasted before you've even taken your clothes off, and said he tries to be mindful about it, and admitted he sometimes forgets. Then the thread turned to what he had been throwing out. The printer, gone yesterday. The Alexa music devices — the big ones, the ones actually built for music — gone. The coffee maker had gone weeks earlier. Space, he said, is very important in an RV, and he had decided those things were not that important to him. Mid-sentence he lost his keys, found them locked inside the Jeep, went to the passenger side, came back, could not immediately reconstruct why he'd been in the Jeep in the first place, remembered — cigarettes — and returned to the thread with an acknowledgment that he was a little distracted today.
Back at the camper, the haul came out one item at a time, each attached to a problem it was meant to solve. A bigger litter box for the cat, whose area sits on a slanted surface, the old box already tied down with bungee cords and propped from underneath in an attempt to stabilize it. The cat only used part of the old one and it wasn't deep enough. The window seat above it stays clear of reflectix, because that's where he sits, that's where he watches, and that's where he rides when they're driving. The cat was outside in his tent enclosure during all of this, meowing, and rswfire narrated the meow for him: why am I stuck in a tent, I don't want to be in a tent, let me go run around.
Then the dehumidifier — twenty-two pints a day, the size he wanted out of a thin selection at Walmart. He noted the constraint attached to it: the draw would empty his solar batteries inside a day, which makes it a shore-power object, useful here and useless out west, where he won't need it. Plates and bowls, because what he had been using wasn't working and the workaround he'd tried instead wasn't working either. A small coffee maker, for the days he really wanted coffee and simply didn't have it. A corkboard, already damaged out of the package, bought because someone on his channel suggested pinning a map of the places he goes, and he loved the idea. A dry erase board. Something, eventually, for paperwork — still unsolved. A trash can with a lid. Stabilizer jacks, because one of the current ones wouldn't come down and he didn't feel level.
He said it directly: a normal day at the store would look very different for him. I am over things, I'm truly over them. The same week he had been burning his media to disc, sending the originals to storage, recovering shelf space he could then use for something else. The camper was being tuned down toward function — fewer objects, each earning its volume.
The rest of the day was already sequenced. He would not put the stabilizer jacks under anything tonight, because camp breaks in the morning: dump the tanks, drive to the tire place, get the new tires, come back, level. A few other things after that. He got the dehumidifier running and watched the readings settle — fifty-six on the unit, fifty-four on one gauge, sixty-four on another, the number varying by where in the camper you stood, all of it down from where it had been. Oh my God, I'm going to love this thing. He closed by saying he wasn't usually the type to ask, but he was open to tips — anything that would make his life or the cat's life better — and he asked people to check whether they were actually subscribed, since most of the people watching weren't, and he wanted enough of a channel to unlock the features he didn't have yet. He couldn't even live stream.