It wasn't long until Z returned to the small room. Just a few minutes, really. She wheeled in with clothes folded up in her lap. They were her clothes, and were at least clean. Also they were clothes she was willing to be rid of--a requirement for anything she brought from home, actually. Especially in this sand pit. That was why they were the blandest, most throwaway clothes ever. She didn't bring any dresses or formal wear or even any of her favorite PJ's. She knew for a fact that she'd either lose them or, worse, ruin them. What she'd brought, in any case, was a spaghetti strap blouse, short shorts, and two different kinds of sandals that didn't at all match in any way, shape, or form. They were great clothes for hot weather, at least, and Z had about a dozen of each in her pack.
"Here ya go," she said as she tossed the collection of fabric Myrria's way.
. . . Oddly enough, she had the most impeccable throwing arm. She looked so weak and frail, yet no matter how fast or how slow Myrria moved to catch the thrown clothes, or even how unprepared she was to catch them, she was going to catch them perfectly.
Z flashed a smile and backed her chair up, spun, and proceeded down the hall.