"The whole point of being lazy is that it's easy," Robin counters, mostly out of a desire to be contrary than any other reason. Just looking around the store, she can see lights and screens everywhere, people holding little glass squares that are brighter and more colorful than any TV she's seen. Everyone is speaking English but half the words around her sound made up, like the kind of slang she'd hear in a science fiction movie about the future except it is the future.

Feeling sort of overwhelmed, she grabs the simplest thing she can that's in her size and not appallingly expensive–a black t-shirt with a ribcage printed on it–and hunts for a pair of jeans. Those, at least, can't be that different.

"I'm eighteen in January. Why?"