Free The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak by Brian Katcher

section. I’m jostled by elaborately costumed conventioneers poked with weapons, and nearly trip over someone’s tail. After colliding with an almost-naked Tarzan, I pause to collect myself.
    A couple of chubby girls in tunics look at me and snicker as they walk by.
    Once again, I’m the outsider .
    â€œThe outfit says Pepper Potts, but I’m not sure about the bow.”
    I look up. The man sitting behind a T-shirt stand is smiling at me.
    â€œExcuse me?” I back away slightly.
    â€œYour costume. The business suit and weapon. I can’t place it.” He’s about twenty. He’s just the heavy side ofoverweight, with the scruffy beginnings of a beard and a Miskatonic University shirt.
    â€œIt’s not a costume,” I reply sharply. “I’m not even supposed to be here. I just have to find my brother.”
    He nods. “Just out for a walk with your longbow, are you?” He smiles and I can’t help but return it. I guess I am overdressed.
    â€œIt’s a long story.”
    â€œI’d love to hear it.” He’s leaning over a pile of shirts, grinning. And I have to say, he’s not entirely bad looking. But I have other things on my mind.
    â€œSorry, I have to go.”
    â€œOh. Yeah.”
    He sounds a little hurt. Clearly he’s bored or desperate to make a sale. I pause to glance at his wares. They’re all T-shirts sporting slogans and logos I don’t recognize. Just as I’m about to politely leave, I spot a comfortable-looking shirt with Asian writing.
    â€œWhat does this say?”
    â€œRoughly translated: ‘A fifteen percent gratuity will be automatically charged to parties of five or more.’”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    He grins, which doesn’t hurt his overall appearance. “Got it off a takeout menu. I love watching hipsters going around thinking it says something about the code of the samurai or whatever I tell ’em.”
    I have to laugh at that. “How much?”
    â€œTwenty.”
    Might as well be a hundred . “Um, maybe next time.”
    â€œHang on.” He folds up the shirt and hands it to me. “You’re a small, right? Trust me, that size never sells out here. You’ll be doing me a favor.”
    I seriously doubt he’s only trying to get rid of unwanted stock, but it would be really nice to change into something less formal. Taking the shirt with a smile, I duck into a changing booth. There’s no mirror, but with my new shirt and longbow, I have kind of a geek-chic thing going on. I’ll blend in, like someone who came here because she wanted to. I return to the sales floor.
    â€œThank you . . .” I glance at his name tag. “‘Arnold Fagg’? What awful comic book did you get that one from?”
    His grin fades.
    Whoops, guess I’m not the only one here using my real name .
    Desperate to change the subject, I hand him my folded blouse, the one my mother repeatedly warned me not to stain. “Could you hold on to this for me? It may be a while before I find my brother.”
    â€œSure. I’m here till nine.”
    I start to go. He clears his throat.
    â€œAnd after nine . . . I dunno, when you’re done withfamily business, I’m running a panel.” His smile is back, but it’s nervous. “It’s at nine in room one fifteen south.”
    â€œWhat sort of a panel?”
    â€œMake your own T-shirts. It’s kind of my thing. Thought you might be interested.”
    â€œWe’ll see. Thanks again.”
    I wander off, trying to focus on finding Clayton and not on unfortunately named Arnold. He clearly doesn’t give away merchandise to everyone. And making my own shirt would be a lot more fun than looking for Clayton or hanging out at the hotel.
    For just a brief moment—just a second—I contemplate returning to his stand and talking some more. Just a little. Just to talk. And maybe find