After dinner, I throw on clothes for shifting, reaching automatically for the same torn white polo shirt.
“You haven’t tossed that out yet?” Owen asks, eyeing me sceptically.
“Why bother?” I shrug. “If I’m going to destroy it further anyway, I might as well get what I can out of it.”
The rip cuts down from the collar and pulls slightly across my chest when I move, but the shirt still does the job. Mostly.
Calix rarely has much concern for what survives a shift, so I make things work where I can.
“But...” Owen’s gaze drops. “New sweats?”
I glance down at myself, then back at him.
“They fit.”
His mouth twitches.
“That’s usually the aim.”
“Then why are you commenting?”
“Because you’re wearing a shredded polo shirt with new sweats and pretending there’s logic involved.”
I pull the
