"Right. Okay. Just... shopping." She grabbed a pair of jeans with rhinestones, her hands trembling slightly. "These have... bedazzling."
"Put them back."
"They're terrible." She was talking too fast. "Memorably terrible. Someone would remember these, right? We don'twant memorable. We want invisible. Gray man theory. Blend into the background."
She was spiraling, using analysis to avoid panic. Griff grabbed a basket, gave her something concrete to focus on. "Jeans. T-shirts. Hoodie. Socks. Boots. Simple."
"Simple. I can do simple." She moved to another rack, pulled out plain jeans. "These feel like cardboard."
"They're sturdy."
"They're hideous."
"They won't fall apart when you're running for your life."
That sobered her. She added two pairs to the basket, movements becoming more mechanical, purposeful. Getting through the task.
She moved to the shirts, examining each one with intense focus—the kind of concentration you use when you're trying not to think about larger things.
"This one has a wolf on it," she said, holding up a shirt. Her laugh came out sharp, brittle. "Three wolves, actually. Howling at the moon. My dad would have—" She stopped, her face crumpling before she pulled it back together.
"Sarah."
"I'm fine. Just... my dad loved tacky tourist shirts. Called them conversation starters. Said you could tell a lot about a person by whether they laughed with you or at you about your shirt." She was gripping the fabric too tightly, knuckles white.
"No wolves. Too memorable."
"Right. Invisible." She put it back carefully. "He's been gone ten years. You'd think I'd stop having these moments."
"You don't stop. You just get better at carrying them."
She looked at him then, really looked at him. "Tank?"
"Every day."
She nodded, grabbed plain t-shirts, a flannel, and a hoodiethat said 'Wyoming: Forever West.' Her movements were steadier now, shared grief somehow grounding her.
"Boots," Griff reminded her.
The footwear section was limited—work boots or hiking boots. Sarah stared at the options, and he saw her throat work as she swallowed hard.
"They're all so..."
"Practical?"
"I was going to say ugly, but..." She touched her duct-taped designer boots. "These saved my life. Stayed together through the mine, through everything."
"They did their job."
"Yeah." She selected a pair of hiking boots, testing the fit with shaking hands. "These make my feet look enormous."
"They'll keep your ankles stable and your feet dry."
"Romantic." The joke fell flat, her voice catching.
"You want romance or survival?"
"Can't a girl have both?" This time the brittleness in her voice was obvious.
