Write an overdetailed and imaginative scene that describes how someone would use the three seashells from demolition man.

The first thing Daniel noticed was that the bathroom had no toilet paper.

The second thing he noticed was that it had a waterfall.

Not a picture of a waterfall, or one of those little decorative fountains that existed chiefly to make hotel lobbies smell faintly of wet pennies. An actual waterfall descended behind a sheet of glass along the far wall, falling through a miniature forest of silver ferns before vanishing into luminous blue gravel.

Somewhere, a flute was being played with unbearable sensitivity.

Daniel sat on the toilet and considered the possibility that civilization had made a terrible mistake.

On a small shelf to his right rested three seashells.

They were arranged on a black stone tray, largest to smallest, each one pearly white. Their ridges caught the bathroom’s indirect lighting in delicate bands of pink and green. They looked expensive, useless, and faintly judgmental.

He leaned forward.

No buttons.

He leaned farther.

No labels.

He looked underneath the shelf.

Nothing.

“Okay,” he said.

The bathroom replied immediately.

“Thank you. Your comfort matters.”

Daniel closed his eyes.

“Is there toilet paper?”

A brief silence followed. Not a mechanical delay. A social one.

“Would you like that query removed from your household history?”

He opened his eyes.

“I would like toilet paper.”

“The residence is not equipped for abrasive cellulose hygiene.”

“Right.”

“Would you like assistance with the shells?”

Daniel looked at them again.

They were the kind of objects a person might buy at a seaside gift shop and place beside a framed photograph of a marriage that was already in trouble.

“Yes,” he said. “Please.”

“Of course. There is no shame in learning.”

“Great.”

“Developmental guidance mode activated.”

The flute stopped.

A cheerful little crab appeared on the wall.

Daniel stared at it.

The crab wore a sailor’s cap.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“Adult introductory mode activated.”

The crab disappeared. The flute resumed, now sounding somehow disappointed.

A soft light illuminated the largest shell.

“The first shell initiates cleansing,” the bathroom explained. “Rest two fingertips along its upper ridges.”

Daniel hesitated.

“Do I pick it up?”

“You may.”

That was worse than a no.

“Am I supposed to?”

“Most users find the seated grip intuitive.”

“Most users grew up with these.”

“Correct.”

He picked up the largest shell.

It was heavier than he expected, and warm—not body-warm, exactly, but the pleasantly warmed temperature of a smooth stone left on a windowsill. Its underside was concave, shaped to receive his thumb. The upper ridges fitted naturally beneath his index and middle fingers.

As soon as he held it properly, a hair-thin line of blue light appeared around its lip.

The toilet made a soft, purposeful click.

Daniel went rigid.

“What was that?”

“The cleansing armature.”

“Where is it?”

“Below.”

“I had gathered that.”

A narrow ceramic wand extended from a concealed recess beneath the back of the seat. Daniel could not see it without attempting a maneuver he was not prepared to attempt, but he heard it position itself: three tiny adjustments, each accompanied by the precise whirr of an expensive camera finding focus.

“Before contact,” the bathroom said, “water temperature will be demonstrated against your wrist.”

A bead of water appeared in the hollow of the shell.

Daniel blinked.

He touched it.

It was warm.

“That’s actually thoughtful.”

“Thank you. Rotate the shell clockwise to increase warmth. Counterclockwise to reduce.”

He turned it a fraction.

The bead became slightly warmer.

“The ridges control pressure. Stroke toward the narrow end to increase. Toward the broad end to decrease.”

“So it’s a remote.”

“The shell is a tactile sanitary interface.”

“A remote shaped like a shell.”

“If that terminology assists you.”

Daniel made one cautious stroke.

A tiny vibration passed through the shell: one pulse.

He made another.

Two pulses.

“Pressure level two,” said the bathroom. “Suitable for first-time users, tenderness, and most elected officials.”

He looked up.

“Was that a joke?”

“Your residence permits gentle satire.”

Daniel decided level two was sufficient.

“Now what?”

“Squeeze.”

He squeezed.

A warm stream of water touched him with such unexpected precision that his entire skeleton tried to move six inches upward while leaving the rest of him behind.

The stream stopped at once.

“Startle response detected.”

“I’m fine.”

“Would you prefer a countdown?”

“Yes.”

“Three. Two. One.”

This time he was ready.

The water resumed, gentle and steady. After a moment, the jet began a minute side-to-side movement, a controlled sweep rather than a spray. There was no splashing. Somewhere beneath him, a ring of low suction caught stray droplets before they could reach the seat.

He stared at the waterfall.

“Oh,” he said.

“Yes,” said the bathroom.

The first pass lasted perhaps eight seconds. Then the water paused, and a softer, slightly silkier rinse followed.

“What’s different?”

“A small quantity of fragrance-free cleansing solution. Skin-safe, biodegradable, and selected according to your guest profile.”

“You have a profile for—”

“Your host selected ‘ordinary human adult.’”

“Good choice.”

A final rinse followed. The shell gave three soft pulses.

“Cleansing complete. Return the first shell to its cradle.”

He set it down.

The black tray accepted it with a faint magnetic tug. A transparent cover swept over the shell, so thin he only noticed it when a band of violet light passed beneath it.

“Disinfection,” the bathroom said.

“Because I touched it?”

“Because everyone touches it.”

Daniel found this difficult to argue with.

The middle shell began to glow.

This one was flatter, almost fan-shaped, with a gently scalloped edge. When he lifted it, the surface shifted beneath his fingers—not physically, but in texture. What had seemed perfectly smooth now offered a subtle, directional grain.

“The second shell controls drying and personal comfort.”

“Personal comfort is a pretty broad category.”

“Today we will restrict ourselves to drying.”

He placed his thumb in the hollow underneath.

“Draw your fingertip across the ridges.”

He did.

Warm air rose beneath him.

Not the violent blast of a public hand dryer, which always seemed designed to punish hands for being wet. This was a broad, quiet current, carefully directed. It moved in a slow spiral, drying without chilling him.

The waterfall’s blue gravel brightened by one shade.

“What does turning it do?”

“Temperature. The same gesture applies across all three shells.”

“And squeezing?”

“Confirms your selection.”

That, Daniel admitted privately, was sensible.

He turned the shell a little clockwise and squeezed.

The air grew warmer. He relaxed despite himself.

Hidden channels in the seat drew the moisture away, preventing the damp tropical atmosphere he associated with badly designed showers. The bathroom smelled faintly of cedar, though he suspected it had smelled that way all along and he had simply been too frightened to notice.

“Optional barrier care is available,” the bathroom said.

“What’s barrier care?”

“A microfine application of unscented protective moisturizer.”

Daniel considered the world he had come from, where a person could spend thirty-seven years performing this task without once being offered moisturizer.

“Not today.”

“Understood.”

A few seconds later, the shell pulsed twice.

“Drying complete.”

He returned it to the tray. Again the cover swept across; again the violet light passed.

Only the smallest shell remained.

It was an elegant little spiral, its pointed tip angled toward the waterfall.

Daniel picked it up with the wary confidence of a man who had successfully landed two-thirds of an unfamiliar aircraft.

“The third shell completes the visit,” said the bathroom.

“Flush?”

“Among other functions.”

“Let’s focus on flush.”

“Press the apex with your thumb.”

He did.

Nothing happened.

He pressed harder.

“Completion is armed,” the bathroom explained. “Please stand.”

“Oh.”

He stood and pulled up his trousers.

The toilet lid lowered behind him with stately discretion.

There was no roar of water. Instead he heard a brief inward rush, followed by a low, sealed hum. The bowl’s contents vanished into a vacuum reclamation line. A measured wash of water swept around the interior, and beneath the closed lid something circled once with a delicate brushing sound.

A small amber light appeared on the third shell.

“Ceramic sanitation in progress. Your handwashing station is ready.”

The blank wall beside the waterfall opened.

A basin slid out, accompanied by a stream of warm water that curved in a perfect arc. Soap arrived as a soft globe of foam, deposited directly into his palm.

Daniel still held the third shell.

“Where does this go?”

“You may return it to the tray.”

He did, then washed his hands.

Behind him, the amber light turned green.

The lid rose on a spotless bowl.

The room became exactly as it had been when he entered: waterfall, ferns, flute, three innocent shells on a black tray.

Daniel dried his hands in a pocket of warm air beneath the basin.

“So,” he said, “wash, dry, flush.”

“Broadly speaking.”

“All that technology, and nobody thought to put three little words on the shelf?”

“The shell system predates your arrival by several generations. Its functions are considered self-evident.”

Daniel looked at the closed door.

On the other side waited his hosts, who had already been extremely kind about his confusion regarding dinner, doors, money, and the dog that turned out to be the building superintendent.

“Could you not mention this?”

“Bathroom guidance sessions are confidential.”

“Thank you.”

“You performed very well.”

“Please don’t.”

The door opened.

His host glanced up from the sitting room.

“Everything all right?”

Daniel paused on the threshold. Behind him, the waterfall whispered over the luminous stones.

“Fine,” he said. “Nice shells.”

His host smiled and returned to her book.

Daniel walked three steps into the room before a terrible new thought stopped him.

There had been no emergency fourth shell.

He turned back toward the bathroom.

Very quietly, from somewhere in the ceiling, the bathroom said:

“Voice assistance remains available.”

Daniel nodded once.

Then he went to find a drink.