Ava hadn’t realized how deeply she was afraid of not being able to get home until Nouresh said that. A tight knot of muscles loosened in the center of her back, and she was able to breathe.

“It’ll take me some time,” the captain said. “In the meantime, though, I’m sure you’ll be able to occupy yourself.”

She stuck the FINNA in the deep pocket of her coat, and wrenched open a door. The noise hit Ava first, a cheerful hubbub of voices, music, bodies, and business. She shared a quick look with Jules and felt a pulse of excitement pass between the two of them. She followed Jules through the hatch and into a wild, chaotic bazaar.

Vendors stood in front of a labyrinth of stalls. The ceiling here was higher, and tent walls stretched up toward it, rippling with movement as large, leaf-shaped fans circulated the air in the room.

The market—which stretched the resemblance to the LitenVärld she knew—didn’t take cash, only trade. Jules, veteran of many church basement rummage sales, found a table with piles of clothing to trade in their seawater-soaked uniform. They reappeared in what looked like sailor’s garb: a cotton shirt, loose pants, and a coat, though they had to give up the steel-toed sneakers they’d bought at Kmart in order to work in stocking and assembly. They seemed happier to be barefoot.

“Nice,” Ava said, catching sight of them after they haggled. “You fit right in.”

Ava ended up trading in the bottle of Ursula’s perfume along with her uniform for a tunic, skirt, and a warm knitted shawl. She felt guilty, but also figured that Ursula wouldn’t miss the bottle, and her granddaughter wouldn’t realize it was gone.

“Thanks,” Jules said. “You look … comfortable.”

“Wow,” Ava said drily. “Great.” She’d picked out clothing as close to pajamas as she could find, and probably didn’t look anywhere near as cool as Jules.

“In a good way!” Jules said, holding up their hands. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you look anything besides …”

Ava could fill in the blank. Miserable. Angry. Depressed. Fair enough.

“Let’s get some food,” she said, and Jules nodded.

They followed their noses toward the center of the market, and found a plethora of food stalls. The food stalls, weirdly, shared names with the chains and franchises that Ava found herself eating at too often in their shitty suburb. The Olive Grove had mounds of freshly baked pita bread and hummus. Dumpling Express was half-obscured by clouds of fragrant steam, serving little bundles wrapped tightly in leaves. El Buckarito, the worst Tex-Mex chain to have ever given Ava food poisoning, offered skewers of grilled meat and vegetables, liberally coated with spices.

Jules tapped on Ava’s shoulder, and she turned to find them pointing at a sign that said Pasta and Friends, staffed by a single old man hand-rolling noodles.