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A girl.

Even in the baggy black T-shirt and guys’ jeans. Not having to posture so much.

The bag from Discount Drug is still next to the sink—antibiotic ointment, plus a few other things I impulse bought. After finger-combing my hair into place—not really much you can do with a pixie, even if you want to—I rummage around for the small white tube, uncap it, and smear some of the contents onto the fairy on my forearm. She’s still pink around the edges, but less puffy, maybe, thanks to the ibuprofen. And the cream feels cool and pleasant going on, not burning like I’d expect. With that done, I wad up the plastic bag, all set to throw it out when I remember it’s not quite empty.

I fish out the last things in there. A box of gauze pads—just in case things with the tattoo head south, although I could probably just swipe some from the shop, now that I think of it—and a slim plastic tube: pink body, green cap.

Mascara.

I don’t really know why I bought it. Impulse purchase, I guess. I was never much of a makeup girl—like, I wore it, but I wasn’t obsessed with building a huge collection. One of each thing, matched roughly to the color of my face, enough so that I looked pretty and alive instead of like a corpse who’d never seen the sun, and I was set. But for whatever reason, this made it home with me.

I pick it up to examine it closer, turning it over with both hands. Then I glance back in the mirror. To my pale, shower-fresh face, my dampish hair, my blank canvas skin. Randomly, my mind flashes to this reel I saw once, literal years ago, this contoured beauty guru doing her lashes in front of her own mirror: ladies, mascara should be your desert-island product. It will always make you look bright and put together…

I stare back at the tube.

And crack it open.

I swipe on the first coat and immediately get a blob in the corner of my eye—of course. Cursing softly, I rub it away until it’s more of a grayish smear and finish combing the wand through my lashes, then the other eye. Then I step back and blink a few times.

I don’t know about bright and put together. But it does make a difference. Subtle, but there.

Like the person in the mirror isn’t just a girl.

It’s me.

With that taken care of, I head downstairs for the next step in my mission: trying to scrounge up something to eat.

The shop is calm this early—well, if 10:30 a.m. is early, which for most of us, it is—but with the big block of the plywood on the right-hand side of the window, it feels less peaceful and more…eerie. I don’t like it, the way it casts a shadow and blots out sunlight, and I find myself walking quickly past the lounge and counter and tattoo stations to the relative oasis of the kitchen. I flick on the lights and start rummaging around in cabinets as my stomach growls, because I’m almost positive I still have something left from my last-week grocery order, and—bingo. A half-loaf of whole-grain bread and some peanut butter, mine all mine. I withdraw my prize and fish out two slices, jamming them in the ancient toaster and just contemplating some coffee when⁠—

Bang. The door to the basement ricochets off the wall, making me jump and spin around.

“Oops.” Fox steps through, shoulders hunched in apology. “Uh, sorry. I…”

The ringing in my ears drowns out the rest of what he’s saying. Stupid startle reflex. Stupid…everything. I clench and unclench my fists, trying to reel myself back to the present moment. The more grounded I can stay in the here and now, the less likely the panic is to take over. So I focus. Dial in.

Kitchen. Sounds. Sights. Hum of the toaster. Rattle of the refrigerator. Angle of the light coming in from the back alley. Bread. Peanut butter. Fox.

Fox. He’s actually dressed for the day, red flannel over one of those white sleeveless undershirts that really doesn’t leave much to the imagination when it comes to the span of his chest. Does he buy those a size too small on purpose? I wonder, not not noticing the red-gold hair that’s just peeking over the top edge of the shirt. Or is that just how they’re made to fit?

“Tink?” Fox’s voice again. “I was just saying I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Fuck. I flex my fists one last time and force myself back to the present. “You didn’t,” I lie.

It hits me, then. Something that probably should’ve hit me way earlier. They know I’m a girl—that cat is out of the bag. But they don’t have to know any more about me. About…what happened to me. Blue does, I guess, and there’s nothing I can do about that. But, weirdly, I trust him not to talk. Of all of them, the one who always hated the guy version of me is the one who is probably best suited to keeping all the…trauma shit the girl version of me comes with under wraps.

So as long as I can keep my reactions normal, as long as I can stay on lock and focus on what I need to do—which is help Wendy, I remind myself—then there’s no reason for any of them to suspect anything more.

Easy.

Fwing.

I jump. Again.

Goddammit.

“Just your toast,” Fox says helpfully, and before I can unfreeze, he’s stepped across the kitchen, extracted both pieces from the slots, and dropped them both on a chipped plate from another cabinet.

He holds it out to me.