Both of us stared. Was it the hair? Something about the lines of her face? Because God knows our father had never run around in a Brooks Brothers suit, and yet, for a second there . . . Shana might have been the one standing on the carpet, but it was Harry Day who stared back from the mirror.

I couldn’t help myself. I shivered. Shana saw it. She thinned her lips, didn’t say a word.

“We’ll take it,” I informed the salesman. “Clip the tags. He’ll wear it out.”

I added a long black wool coat to the stash, then handed my credit card to the attending salesman, who was still looking at everything but my face.

The credit card was my extra, the one I kept in my safe and not in my purse, in the event of theft. The police were most likely monitoring my other cards, given Shana had allegedly escaped with my purse. But this card should be clear. Even if the police tracked the purchase, a professional woman shopping at Brooks Brothers wasn’t too suspect, was it?

From the clothing store, I took my sister down a few blocks to a walk-in hair salon. There, a bored kid tidied up her hack job, then, per my request, added blond highlights. A TV was on in the corner of the salon. Evening news covering the morning’s prison escape, complete with flashing a photo of my sister’s bored-looking mug shot. I glanced at the hairstylist. He didn’t seem to notice the news or the photo. Or if he did, he didn’t seem to connect a gaunt woman in prison orange with the nicely attired gentleman sitting in his salon chair.

I was still grateful to hustle us both out of there. Across the street to the drugstore for one last purchase: a pair of reading glasses with thick black frames. When I perched them on the end of her nose, Shana frowned, looking like she might sneeze.

But the end result was worth it.

Shana Day had disappeared completely. Now, a successful businessman stood in her place.

“Is this how your father looked?” Shana asked me. “You know, your other dad.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He was an academic; he preferred tweed.”

My sister stared at me as if I was speaking another language. No doubt for her, I was.

“Roger,” I announced briskly, straightening the glasses on her face. “We’ll call you Roger. You’re a doctor. In fact, you’re my therapist. After this morning, no one would blame me for needing a shrink.”

My sister touched one of the marks on my face.

“I am an expert in pain,” she deadpanned.

Then she turned away, shifting restlessly under the weight of all the new clothes, fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides.