The bell above the door of "The Gilded Clipper" had a delicate, apologetic chime, a sound that felt too refined for the gritty city street outside. I, Alex, stood in the doorway, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. My hair was collar-length, a noncommittal, mousy brown that I’d hidden under baseball caps for years. But today, the cap was in my pocket. Today was the day.