That was when the thought returned, stronger than ever: I shouldn’t be here.

“How long has it been?” I said nervously. “Since we did this last, I mean.”

Carol looked astronomically confused. “Did what?” A pause. “Visit your mother’s grave?”

I nodded timidly. Judging from Carol’s bewilderment, I could already tell I wouldn’t like the answer.

“You’ve never taken me up on my offer. Not that I can remember. Unless dementia is finally rearing its ugly head.” Carol studied me like a riddle. “In fact, I was under the impression that you hadn’t been here since the funeral.”

I really shouldn’t be here.

“What makes you say that?” I asked. As if I needed further proof.

“As I recall,” said Carol, “that’s what you told me. Right before you threw my coffee mug at my fine china. I’m still not sure which I’m more upset about. That mug was a Deviehl.”

Oh my god. We needed to leave here now. Before Wynonna and I—

Flash.

I called Wynonna twelve times in a row. No answer. I called again—nearly an hour later—and she finally picked up on lucky number thirteen.

“What the fuck?” she said. Her voice was a choking sob. “What the fuck, Ezra?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Carol asked if I wanted to visit your mom, and I didn’t know what to say, and I obviously didn’t know about the situation, and—”

“You could have said no! You could have said, ‘Fuck you, Carol!’ You could have said anything! But no, you had to go stick your big fat nose in my… in my…”

Wynonna screamed. I could almost feel the impact of her phone as it was thrown across the room. Then, from a muffled distance, I heard several more objects being thrown, kicked, slammed, destroyed. At one point, I was pretty sure she ran her hands across the tops of her desk and dresser, flinging everything off in a mighty sweep.

Then I heard her collapse on the floor.

I heard her cry.

TEN

THERE WAS ONLY ONE rule in the entire universe that governed my and Wynonna’s body-swapping. That was that the first swap of the day happened exactly at 3:14 a.m. every night.

Now that Wynonna had shed light on this mysterious detail, I paid special attention to it. I set my phone alarm for 3:10 in case I fell asleep—which I did, whoop-de-doo—and stared at the large, noisy analog clock in my living room. When it was 3:13, I was on the very literal edge of my La-Z-Boy reclining seat. It took a small eternity for that needle-like second hand to reach the fifties. And when it did, I couldn’t help but hold my breath.

Fifty-seven… fifty-eight… fifty-nine…

The minute hand shifted a notch.

I held my breath for several infinitesimal seconds. Then I glanced down at myself—which was still, notably, myself.

What the hell?