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Clothing Room A to collect your new wardrobe."
    "Thank you." My dad says and then together, with our tablets in hand, we head towards the row of clothing stores.
    The temperature in the common area is a little too cold for my flimsy hospital gown so I am anxious to get something on with a little more coverage. I will say one thing. I am thankful that they aren’t the gowns with the opening in the back!
    We come upon the nearest shop and enter in the front door, which has been propped up with a shoe for a doorstop. I immediately notice the lack in variation from one outfit to the next. It is as I feared. The only thing available is scrubs, they simply vary in color. A small beep sounds when we enter, triggering a chain reaction. Walking towards us, in the lead, is a tall, lanky, flamboyant man followed by two women succeeding closely on his heels.
    He stops a few feet from us and begins to take us in. He looks us over like he would when making a selection for prime meat. He circles us muttering “mmmhmm,” as he goes. He returns to his original position and snaps both his fingers twice. The women must understand what this means because the one on the left immediately hands him a tape measure while the one on the right wipes his brow. Oh brother, I think to myself. You’ve GOT to be kidding me.
    “You,” he points at me. “Come with me.” Snapping his finger, he turns on his heel and walks off with a purpose. I sneak a glance in the direction of my father but he just shakes his head, mouth still propped open in a shocked expression. I turn my attention back to the disaster at hand and follow quickly behind the man that’s about to disappear around a corner.
    He stands me on a small stool and has me hold out my arms. The woman, whom I’m guessing is his assistant, comes in the room with a clipboard and pen. She nods her head and he begins taking measurements. He barks out the measurements as she writes them down. They go on like that for ten minutes or so. My arms are on fire by the time he tells me he’s finished. I rub them trying to get the blood circulating again. The woman leaves the room for a moment and comes back with an armful of scrubs in her hands. She leaves them on a chair for me; then retreats.
    “Which color you want?” She asks me. I’m taken aback by her accent, which is obviously foreign. Our borders have been closed for years, well, as long as I can remember at least. Since our government passed the 28th amendment all export and import shipping stopped as well as flights overseas. They felt foreigners held too much threat to our society after numerous illnesses wreaked havoc through our nation. Since then we've had a policy where no one goes in and no one goes out. It really sparks my curiosity knowing this woman could be from The Outside as we call it.
    “Hmmm,” I respond. “I think I’ll take the periwinkle, the chartreuse and the indigo.” Yes, there’s a reason why I said that. I wanted to gauge if she was a recent immigrant or if she has been here a while. Chances are, if she’s been here a while, she’d have to know at least one, maybe two of these colors.
    She gives me a blank stare and then sets the clothes in the chair. “You pick three and take to front.” She turns on her heel and leaves the room.
    Darn, thought I had her.
    I change into the pink scrubs and when I throw my hospital gown into the metal disposal bin I hear a clinking sound. I nearly forgot! I hastily grab the gown and with a shaking hand I work on retrieving the item that I stowed away in its hem. I don't know how I worked it in there so well because it doesn't come out as easily as it went in. I work the fabric on the hem back and forth exposing it a little more each time.
    A knock on the door startles me. The lady who gave me the scrubs comes in without waiting for me to answer. I have to shove the gown behind my back. "Ouch." I cry out as something pricks my hand.
    "You okay?" She asks.
    I nod quickly and