Monday. The rental agency is a one-room office at the edge of Main, with a young clerk who doesn't blink at cash. I sign for a mid-size sedan and take the wheel.
*I've got to buy a car. Two cars. One for me, one for Katie — with the school there'll be a lot of back and forth.*
Then the shop — tucked between a pawnbroker and a laundromat on the seedier edge of town, where the questions get fewer, the sign reading *Novelty & Theatrical Supply — Since 1978*. A bell jingles when I push through the door.
The man behind the counter is in his sixties, bald, reading glasses pushed up on his forehead. He looks me over once and doesn't ask questions. Good.
"I need a nun's habit." I give him Katie's measurements. "Full set. No cross, no religious iconography of any kind. And the accessories — white coif, white garterbelt, white stockings, mid-thigh. White heels. White bra. White panties."
He finishes writing. Looks up. "Anything else?"
