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When it’s 5 degrees out and expected to drop, and it’s you and your battle buddy’s turn on night watch to share a sleeping bag in the snow-covered mudhole the two of you have spent the past 12 hours digging, the last thing on anyone’s mind is gender or sex.

I sighed and plopped down on the first step, worried we’d made our way into another dead-end, boring, waste of time, dusty mudhole of a town, with another move not too far off.

Halfway there, we left the paved highway and turned onto an unmarked back road with deep sand and an occasional mudhole.

“The basement is like a dark mudhole,” she said with a shudder.

What looks like a wet patch of grass might hide a mudhole or puddle deeper than your shoe.