A T-SHIRT; A lined raincoat; a pair of cargo pants; and a brief hair braiding session later, Georgia and I were stepping outside of the store with a tarpaulin-gram box under my arm.

I had found no shoes in my size, and would have to endure the trainers I had on until we returned.

As a result of my better judgment, Georgia had taken a few sets of clothing and added them to her backpack. She had also chosen a new electric blue sleeping bag with which to replace her tattered lilac one from home.

It seemed to solidify her stay.

I wondered then just how long I intended for it to last. Were her fathers searching for her? Would they not be worried for her wellbeing?

And if not...I shuddered at the alternatives.

As we then headed back towards the Cotton Candy, I thought about what it took to care for a child. My own parents had participated very little in my childhood; Magenta and I were often in the care of our governess, attendants and tutors.

I had learned of love and nurturing, but had not seen it in practice. Perhaps that was why Magenta did better than me in examinations —she regurgitated the facts, while I daydreamed about experiencing them.

There had even been a point when we learned about humans and their ways of reproduction. It unnerved me to no end; to imagine such a process, but it was a part of our curriculum, and could not be avoided.

I fooled myself for far too long in my younger years, thinking that I could experience what it was to be human on a level beyond that which was skin-deep.

It happened when I was nine or ten, and our governess took Magenta and me to the Gamma Plane on a field trip. We stood out immediately by our attire and the colour of our hair and eyes. We had it equally as bad: my white hair had been braided into a bun, while Magenta had left her hair —the colour of starless space threaded with gold —flowing loose.

The human children had gaped, pointed.

I had not blamed them; dressed in their neutral black and grey pants and skirts, jerseys and t-shirts.

Yet the surprise had worn off when we had been permitted to interact. Magenta sat primly at a tea shop table, admired by passers-by and envious little girls in her elegant fuchsia silken gown and petticoats.

To everyone's horror, her little sister had ripped off her irritating skirts and paraded in the park in her cream bodice, one petticoat and her stockings.

I had not seen the issue at the time.

The real trouble was when I decided that I wanted to try swinging on some of the playground equipment that was only meant for children above a certain height. As a girl, I was too short.

But as a boy, I would likely qualify.

I went off into the trees to reform and alter my appearance. At that age, nothing really changed; I could still easily pass for a girl, since my clothing still fit.

The children monitoring the activity had looked me up and down in understandable confusion.

"Weren't you shorter just now?" one sneered.

"How did you grow?" asked another.

"I just turned into a boy," I said as though it were simple.

It was that day that I understood that certain things were impossible in the world of human beings. What I had done went against their laws of nature. The children explained to me that genders were not interchangeable —and that girls and boys were very different.

Little Purple could not understand.

Though when the dreaded subject of anatomy surfaced I was forced to reevaluate my actions. It made no sense to the humans because they did not understand that Dreamcatchers were not like them.

They still did not, even in present day.

I now glanced down at my body, the muscles flexing in the path of my gaze. Nothing felt wrong to me.

And I realised —Georgia's situation could not be more different to mine. I had been a bothersome child, but my motivation was not the same as hers.

Which I was very grateful for, in fact, because it meant that I would not have to deal with someone like myself. The teenager next to me was quiet, shut-in and on edge. On the rare occasion that she wanted attention, she would simply ask for it, not act out.

So I modelled my approach the way my governess and attendants had treated Magenta. They kept her clothed, well-mannered and polite. There was something else, though, that I was missing —

"Humans require food," I suddenly stated.

Unlike Georgia, I did not have a stomach or digestive system —Dreamcatchers survived inestimably off of nothing at all. We needed no sleep, no sustenance; simply bathing and a balanced lifestyle. We were a bit of a puzzle to the human mind.

"...Yeah," Georgia mused, as though she were only realising it as well.

"When was the last time that you ate?"

"...Yesterday."

"Is that the truth?" I deadpanned.

Her brows furrowed. "Lay off," she snapped. "You're not my parents. I'm fine, okay?"

She became so defensive that I paused for a moment, trying to place her behaviour. Had she lied? Did she not want to eat? Or maybe she believed that keeping her fed would be a troublesome task for me.

"I will not have you starve on my watch," I declared, glaring directly back at her. "So come with me —we are going to search for groceries."

She grumbled, but gave my stern expression a once-over and relented guiltily. I grunted in satisfaction. I was not going to surrender on the matter.

It took longer to find a store than expected.

It should have been a given, considering our surroundings. Many old supermarkets had long-since shut down and gotten rid of their stock out of fear.

But several blocks down, on a little high street, a store had its lights flickering promisingly. We proceeded with caution, unsure of whether or not it was still being maintained. As we came up to the entrance, we saw that the owner was indeed still there.

A lanky man with unkept brown hair leaned over the front counter. His sharp dark gaze in tired almond eyes locked on us, narrowing as I offered a smile.

He glanced at our things. "Out for a spot of shopping, are you?" he quipped, his accent half British and half Malaysian. "I hope you have the money to pay."

"We do," I answered, holding up my carry-on bag.

He did not respond beyond a suspicious sigh, and the motion of his hand for us to get on with it.

I nodded to Georgia.

She ran full-tilt for the snacks aisle —which did not surprise me. She had likely been living off of such salty and sweet processed foods.

Not wishing to start a fight inside of the store, I made my way through the far healthier sections.

I did not possess a refrigerator, so anything strictly from that section was out of the question. So I stuck to tinned soups and ready-made container meals ( the new technology allowed the package to mimic the effects of a being inside of a refrigerator for a period of time so long as it was kept in a cool dry place ).

I thought about getting a microwave, but my electrical situation was uncertain. So I put most of the meals on hold, and opted for a small gas stove.

"Are you going camping or something?" the store owner asked as he wrote up the products.

"No," I said. "Things are just...weird at home."

"I see," he murmured. "...That will be one hundred and twenty-three pounds and two pence."

I sucked on my teeth. It was not that I had not anticipated that amount —I was well aware of prices, and Georgia's preferences. No, the problem was that that amount was almost half of what I had in my bag.

"Is that going to be a problem?" asked the owner. His expression and stance taunted, almost mocked me. I was a head and a half taller than him. He should be thoroughly intimidated. Yet he appeared to have anticipated a situation where I would not be able to pay.

Did I look like that much underage to him?

"No sir," I said rather limply. I placed the bag on the counter and reached inside for my wallet. I produced a one hundred pound note and a fifty pound note. "...Do you have any change?" I deadpanned.