It does; and for a moment there's the impulse to turn and walk back to the bus stop -- an impulse heightened by a sudden horrible consciousness of how underdressed she is in comparison to the others in line. The best you can say for her black jeans and gray sweater is that they're clean, and they definitely don't belong in the same ensemble as the jewel-green velvet on the woman ahead of her, or the glossy furs of someone further up the line.

But the impulse passes, and she takes a deep breath of the chilly November air and stays where she is.

It's discomfort, not danger. Not threat. And she thinks -- she's pretty sure -- that by now she knows the difference.

She offers Reep a very small smile and a low "Thank you."