The sink was the biggest part of it, and was closest to the windows; the faucet stooped over it like a crane, and flexed slightly, and with a squeeze emitted water that was, like all the rest of the water here, pale pink.

It was strange. He never thought that the color of the water would change. Even the great lakes of Pearlusk were not the familiar, impermeable gray-blue but glistened ambiguously, like a giant aged abalone. An uneven blackish-gray chipped with bruised purples and greens, rash reds, and occasionally brilliant streaks of white, neon green, bronze, gold.

But in handfuls from the sink, in bucketfuls that he took for his bath, the water was palest pink.

And tasted fresher than any other water he had ever tasted.

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