They’re pretty words, that’s for damn sure. The way she talks about it, Trixie can even see herself believing it.

She laughs under her breath at her question. Oh, her people have a name alright, but maybe she shouldn’t make the whore joke to her yet. She’s trying to make friends after all.

“We’re called Americans,” she tells her with a shrug, “but we ain’t a race. White, I guess. It’s a loaded question when it comes to what we are - don’t think we quite know anyways.”

But speaking of names, “don’t think I catch what you’re called. Name’s Trixie.”