"I should say so," Lari agrees after the girl's verbal stumbling. She gives her a sympathetic smile, then reaches over and opens the car door. "Hop in, won't you? Goodness, you look frigid."

She leans back into her own seat and unbuttons her jacket — a lightweight enough thing to weather the ups and downs of Darrow's uncertain spring without being too overwarm should the sun come out in full force — and offers it over by the collar.

"Put this on," she instructs. "It isn't much but it's more than you've got on now. I'm Larita. And this is Darrow. The city, not the car." She winks; the admiring gape hadn't escaped her notice, but it has done wonders to ingratiate the girl towards her. Anyone that can appreciate a car like Larita's is someone Larita is just fine knowing.