Buses aren't running yet, but walking into town warms you up. First stop: Rite Aid. You buy a loofah with soap already in it, a pack of new white t-shirts, and thick wool socks. Then you lock the store's bathroom and clean yourself up in the sink. There's a lot of dried blood, but you scrape it off and dump everything in the trash can. The fleece and parka go, too—they're beyond saving. That means you have to hurry down the street, arms crossed, to the cheap consignment shop.
It's cold in here, too, a cold not helped by the ugly glare of the woman behind the counter. She looks like she's biding her time, picking out a really good slur to call you. But you have money now to buy clean clothes. Good ones, not so expensive that you can't afford to explode out of them in a burst of Rage, but not the dirty, sweat-smelling cast-offs Clay used to toss your way. You look for something that will help you in your investigations. After searching the racks and making sure you have enough money for necessary cold-weather clothing, you pick out—
You don't want to be rich. You know what the rich have done to the Living Earth. But you'd like a pair of pants that don't smell like blood and fur. A quick scan of the aisles turns up lots of nice stuff that won't make you look like an extra on Riverdale. You scoop up a button-down shirt, a Buffalo University hoodie (gray), a pullover (dark blue), and wool slacks. You'll still freeze to death like this, but after a few more minutes of browsing the aisles, you find tall black boots and a long winter coat the same color as the cat-spirit. Scarves are cheap, and you even find a pair of herringbone-patterned gloves lined with artificial fur on the inside. What else? Ah yes, undergarments. And now you almost feel like a normal person.
The clerk glares at you the whole time. The People of the Map will never trust you. Ignoring those hard, cold eyes, you also buy a lighter, some maps, a roll of toilet paper, and some plastic baggies in case the snow turns to rain. Then you pay and get dressed.
But as you spot your shockingly normal reflection in a mirror trimmed with flaking gold leaf and sort through your remaining money, you realize that one of your folded bills contains a receipt. Banicki Gunworks in some place called Northampton.
Oh damn, a "clue." You've never actually "found a clue" before. That's pretty cool. You can't call the place since you don't have a phone, but it's time to hit the streets and learn about that saddle.
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"Looks like a McClellan saddle, from your drawing," the woman at the saddle store says. This is an upscale place, with fancy rugs and lots of fake oil paintings of English women in red coats on horses, but the elderly woman at the desk seems happy to talk. "I don't know anyone named Heaney." A few tap-taps at the computer. "Not seeing anything online. But you know who's really into obscure saddlemakers is my friend Memphis." She taps an oil painting that features a pug riding a roan mare, signed 'Memphis,' and then hands you a business card for a place ten minutes away.
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