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 goes too—it's 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—