THIS WIFI MARISOL'S IN SEARCH OF is incredibly elusive.

The first shop we go into doesn't have it. We leave immediately. Neither does the second, or third, or fourth, or fifth. By the time we've gone into the eleventh store and there's still no wifi, I've lost all hope. And then we go into the twelfth store.

"WIFI!" Marisol sings, happily dancing around herself. "Oh, wifi, how I've missed you! Okay, first up, I need to call my mom! You three, go pick your shit out!"

She takes out  small bright pink rectangle she's been carrying around and taps on it until it lights up. On it, there is a painting of a pointy-eared dog with orange fur.

"Dog," I say, instinctively.

Marisol's face lights up. "Yeah, that's my doggie. Her name's Gucci."

"Shut up," says Ezra. "You did NOT name your dog Gucci. I wanna give her a little smooch."

"Is she a good dog?" I ask.

"The best."

"Is that a phone?" I gesture at the rectangle encasing the painting of her dog.

"Yeah."

She taps on it a couple of more times and presses it to her ear, causing it to ring shrilly. After a moment the ringing is replaced by a female voice speaking in hurried, emotional English. Marisol responds in the same tongue, and I want to stay and listen and watch, but Dahlia grabs my hand and drags me deeper into the store, Ezra beside her.

So, clothes. Okay, yeah. Clothes. What do heretics wear these days?

As Dahlia drags me I observe the people around us. They seem to be wearing so much more clothing than we do back home, but at the same time, they wear so little. The fabric is heavy and thick, yet everything is exposed—their legs, their arms, even the midriffs of some girls.

For the most part, their outfits seem to be made out of the same three basic materials. Shoes, a top half, and a bottom half that comes down to the knees of the guys and the upper thighs for the girls. Strangely, this bottom piece of clothing has two holes, one for each leg. Perhaps it gives them better maneuverability.

The store is nothing like what we had back home. You could buy fabrics and armor and jewelry and shoes, but you could not buy clothes. The wealthiest among us had slaves that wove their clothes for them, but the rest of us made our own.

And even of all the things that you could buy, they were all in little booths in the marketplace, each vendor selling a specific item. That guy specializes in boots, that one oils. You can get a good sheepskin from that girl over there.

But this heretic store, it's so much bigger, and full of so much more variety. Shoes, and clothes, and jewelry, and even makeup all in the same place. Although I don't see any armor or weapons.

I wonder, do heretic Greeks favor swords, or do they have strong archers? Apollonisi has always favored the spear, though I myself am partial to the sword.

Cold air blows all around me, ruffling my hair and turning my sweat to ice. A tinkly song plays seemingly out of nowhere. A curly-haired girl hums along while she shops, entrancing me. Some items of clothing lay crumpled up on the floor.

I've already lost Dahlia and Ezra. While I was looking around, they split off in their own directions and left me to my own devices. I look at the racks of clothing, running my hands over the fabric. My attention is grabbed by these things almost similar to the tunics that I'm used to, long one-piece things that will cover me down to my thighs.

I pick out one in a lavish purple. The dye for this sort of color is so expensive that back home only royals can afford to wear it. For shoes I find a sturdy pair of leather sandals.

Where did the others go?

I find Marisol looking at a yellow top, a pair of blue bottoms folded over her arm.

"You found some clothes already!" She takes the stack of clothes out of my arms and examines each individual item. "Cute! Are they your size? They look small."

"They come in different sizes?"

Marisol rolls her eyes at me. "Duh. Where'd you get these? I'll help you find your size."

I show her where I found my long tunic and sandals, and she sorts through them, holding each item against me and going hmmm until she finds something she thinks will fit.

"You need underwear," she tells me. "Do you have underwear? Probably not, right?" She drags me over to the back corner of the store, roots through the displays, and hands me a small piece of blue fabric. "This goes on under your dress. What about a bra? Do you want one? You probably don't need one. Fuck it, who cares? You're not getting one." She points off at a beige cotton curtain. "The fitting room's over there, behind that curtain. Go try this on. Make sure no one's in it before you go in. You're gonna need a couple more outfits, though, and some pajamas."

She ushers me off towards the fitting room and returns to her own shopping.

I knock on the wall the curtain is strung against. "Is anybody in there?"

When no one answers I pull the curtain back. Behind it is a small, dark space with a dusty mirror. I'm startled by my reflection.

Quickly, I close the curtain behind me. I disrobe, pull on the underwear, and slide the garment over my head, stretching my arms up as it shimmies down my body.

Who would make such a thing?

It's impossible to move in, hugging my body like a wet glove. When I try to turn, or bend over, or simply lift my arms, the fabric painfully pulls against my skin. The feeling of something so tight against my body brings back memories of Apollo choking me. And where will I keep my weapons, with no hidden folds or hooks to clip a sheath?

It was designed with beauty in mind, not practicality.

I rip it off and wrap my own cloak back around myself.

The shoes aren't much better. They stick and slide awkwardly on the floor, and provide such little arch support it seems they were designed with one objective in mind: discomfort.

I step out of the fitting room and nearly run into Marisol.

"That was fast!" she exclaims. "Did it fit?"

I hand the shoes and the long tunic back to her. "This won't do. I couldn't move in it. I need something that I can fight in."

"Well, hopefully you won't have to fight anyone." She takes the discarded clothes from me. "So dresses aren't gonna be your thing then. Bummer. You've got the legs for it. Anywhosies. Come with me. I know just what you need." She winks and takes off to another part of the story. "Sportswear."

"I want something in purple," I tell her.

"Yes ma'am." She salutes me and starts rooting through the clothes. "It'll go so good with your complexion. You'll look hot." Her face goes red. "I mean, not that you don't already, but you'll look extra hot in purple. Spicy hot. Sssss."

Each item she finds she piles into my arms. Several purple tops and stretchy pairs of bottoms. Strange gray and white sheathes of fabric and an odd type of shoes, of course, in purple—not quite boots but nowhere near sandals.

"What are all of these things called?"

"These are t-shirts. These are tank tops. Collectively known as shirts. These are track shorts, and these are yoga pants. Collectively known as pants. These are sneakers and these are socks. Put the socks on your feet and then the sneakers around them. You've gotta tie them, but I'll show you how. All we need is pajamas. And another pair of underwear or two. So you don't get stanky."

She drags me back over to where she grabbed the first pair of underwear and hands me two more, this time in purple. In the same section she finds the thing she calls pajamas, a soft purple shirt with a matching pair of fleece pants. "Now go, my little fashionista-in-training. Go try these on."

I return to the fitting room and try on the first shirt. It's easier to move in, though it still has the same design, built more for style than comfort or functionality. The other couple of shirts are the same. The yoga pants are too restrictive and I scrap them immediately, opting to swap them for another pair of track shorts after I'm finished here. Because I absolutely adore the track shorts; they're my favorite item. There's still no room for weapons, but the agōgē has taught me nothing if not how to improvise.

Besides, there's always room for a dagger at a woman's thigh

I struggle to figure out the sneakers and socks on my own, so I put my tunic back on and have Marisol teach me how they work.

They're fine. They fit my feet.

As I put the yoga pants back and grab a new pair of track shorts, I find a two-handled bag (a backpack, Marisol tells me it's called, and shows me how to hook it around my shoulders) large enough to carry my weapons and all of our extra clothes.

The four of us reconvene at something that Marisol tells me is called the cash register, and she pays for it all using her phone. Once they're paid for, we take turns changing into our new clothes in the fitting room. When I suggest we save time and all change at once, they give me the strangest looks.

Marisol comes out in a pair of short, baggy blue pants, a very tight sleeveless yellow top, and a pair of white sneakers. Dahlia's new clothes are similar to the ones that she'd had on earlier, a long, flowy, patterned pair of pants,—though her's only have one hole instead of two, and I'm told by Marisol that it's called a skirt—a loose white shirt and beige sandals. Ezra ends up in a fluffy black shirt, long pants with flowers embroidered on them (Marisol explains that they're a certain type called jeans), and beige sneakers. They each give me their extra clothes, which I shove into my bag beneath my weapons.

"Okay, so we've got the tickets booked," Marisol says. "The airline paid for the three of us and gave us a lifetime supply of free tickets. Because, you know, we were the only survivors of a crash and they don't want us talking shit to the press or suing them. They obviously don't know me. So, anyways, I got Antigone's for free. We're flying out of Athens tomorrow morning. My mom got us all hotel rooms. Antigone can stay with me. Because I didn't tell her about her. Dahlia and I already called our parents. Ezra, do you want to call your's?"

He gives her a long, hard look.

"Oh, my God!" she throws her fingers over her mouth. "I'm so sorry! I totally forgot! Do you have anyone else that you can call?"

"No," he says. "But I need to get into contact with that guy for Antigone's passport."

"Right." She hands her phone over to him, nervously giggling. "So, anyways, I checked Google Maps. It says we're in Preveza. It's a four hour drive to Athens. We're gonna need to take the bus."

"What is a bus?" I ask.

"It's, like, this thing that gets people from one place to the next," Dahlia explains.

"Oooooh," I say, thinking she means a chariot. "Of course I know what a bus is."

"Marisol!" Ezra exclaims. "Why don't you have Facebook?"

"Because I'm not a middle-aged suburban white lady," she replies. "Why do you need it?"

"I don't know my guy's number. I just have him on Facebook."

"For a teenage boy, you're such a mom." Marisol sighs dramatically. "Jesus Christ, just download it."