Vernique thought for a moment, then reached and pulled her green dress on over her shrinking outfit. It was the closest thing to being remotely 19th-century Southwest appropriate. They were going to be weird, all right, but she could at least look like something the locals would recognize as a female -- one who identified as female and wasn't trying to pass as a boy; she'd seen those pony express shows.
"Soon as we can," she mutters. "There will be clothes shopping."
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