"You are," says Jim: "...how do you have time?" Mind-boggling.

When there's no risk of shampoo running into his eyes, or minimal risk, he engages himself in scrubbing off his arms, his legs. There's not much hair on his chest or his belly, so not many places for the mud to catch.

Though bending over almost makes him fall over.

"Fuck," he says. He has a feeling that he's going to pass out again and that it won't be nice helpful sleep he'll get at first but just plain unconsciousness.