She rushes past me and down the hall, returning with a set of car keys in one hand, tossing a pair of sandals in my direction.

“You expect me to go outside looking like this?” I ask, “What if someone recognizes me — as a girl?” She sighs painfully annoyed, sprinting back and forth to a hallway closet, now with a hoodie in hand. “Here,” she snaps, “Put it on and you can be shapeless!”

It’s a blob of fabric, peach-colored where it’s not spattered in stains, vanilla-scented, and no doubt her well-worn tall-woman baking hoodie.

“So you put it on, and—oh what am I saying…you still know how to wear on clothes, right? Do you still know how to walk?” she cries, now shaking me for answers, “Do you need me to carry you!?”