“Uh…” I said. I had to pause and think. “For starters, probably Jesus Christ.”

When Wynezra looked confused, I proceeded to slide my hand up and down an imaginary cock in front of me.

“Oh my god,” said Wynezra. She shook her head. “No way. I am not choking your chicken.”

“Hey, currently it’s your chicken,” I said, raising my hands defensively. “I will get no pleasure out of it. Only you. I’m just trying to help.”

“And how exactly is masturbating supposed to help?”

“It defuses all the sexual tension in your body,” I said. “Duh. I mean, you might still get a boner, but after you’ve masturbated, it’ll be much easier to look at Holden as a person and not five feet nothing of sexual desire.”

Wynezra glared at me.

“I’m just saying,” I said.

“Okay,” said Wynezra, relenting. “Fine. How do I masturbate?”

“Ummmmmm…” I said, uncomfortably. “The age-old tools seem to be lotion, tissues, and your porn of preference. But… I would just say, you do you. I’m sure you’ll figure out what feels good.”

Wynezra gave me a prying look.

“What?” I said.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” she said. “Me… you know…”

She mimicked my hand-sliding-on-imaginary-cock gesture.

“If you get Imogen to like me,” I said, “you can choke that chicken seventeen times a day. You can choke it until I get penis cancer. Or dick-related superpowers.”

Wynezra gave a feeble smile. It was the smile of someone who was grateful but in a broken sort of way.

The smile of someone with a secret.

Wynonna and I were back in our own bodies by evening. I had driven to the Lakes and was just pulling into the parking garage when—flash—I was lying stomach-down on my bed, with my Xbox controller in my hand, playing Forza Horizon 5. The Lamborghini I was apparently racing smashed into a tree while I was winding around a tight bend.

The imagery in front of me—coupled with what I had been doing just seconds earlier—caused me to drop the controller.

Shit.

I rolled around on the bed and fumbled for my phone. Felt it brush my leg from inside my pocket.

I whipped it out, fumbled for Wynonna’s number in the recent calls, and pressed the call button. As the tone rang, I made a mental note to add her to my contacts—shit, add her as one of my favorites—for emergencies’ sake.

The call went to her voice mail:

“Heeeeeeeeeyyyy, I’m not here right now. So… better luck next time.”

Beep!

Oh my god.

I hung up and tried again.

This time, Wynonna picked up on the second ring. We both screamed simultaneously into our phones. I said, “OH, THANK GOD,” and she said, “AHHHHHHHHHHHH.”

“Are you okay?” I asked.