“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “Good thing you were only going twenty miles per hour and your foot was on the brake. I almost went right into a concrete pillar.”

“Shit. But you’re okay?”

“Just got my heart racing a bit. But yeah, I’m okay. Prolly didn’t help I was playing that fucking video game.”

I nodded breathlessly, even though she couldn’t see me.

“Well…” she said awkwardly. “I should go.”

“Wynonna?” I said.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

She was silent for a moment.

“Thanks, Ezra,” she said finally, and hung up.

I spent the rest of the night memorizing Viola’s lines. I memorized them until 3:14 a.m. when I was suddenly—magically—fast asleep in someone else’s body.

NINE

FOR THE THIRD MORNING in a row, I woke up as Wynonna Jones. Even if everything else about our body-swapping situation was random as fuck, at least that was consistent.

I had just showered and was halfway through getting dressed—a routine I was definitely starting to enjoy—when Wynezra called.

“Can I pick you up?” she said. “We need to talk.”

“Uh, sure,” I said. “Is everything o—”

She hung up.

As I finished getting dressed, I racked my brain over every possible thing Wynonna had potential to be mad about. On a normal day, this would have been a very long list. Today, however, I honestly couldn’t think of a single thing.

Resigning myself to whatever fate lay ahead, I took a chance on some ripped jeans (now that I was wearing them, they looked really good on Wynonna; maybe even classy), a pair of high leather boots that reached mid-calf, and a tank top that said WHAT’S YOUR DAMAGE, HEATHER? God, I loved her shirts.

No jacket. The bra straps and I didn’t give a fuck today. We were feeling good. Confident.

I was outside and on the curb for about ten minutes before Wynezra arrived. She was driving slower than usual. When she pulled up alongside me, she barely even looked at me.

Her face—my face—looked tired.

Oh.

I suddenly had an idea what this might be about.

I climbed into the passenger’s-side door, closed it, and we drove, basking in a void of tension.

“For the past three nights in a row,” said Wynezra, still not looking at me, “I’ve woken up at three fourteen a.m. In your body. And then, I lie awake until the sun comes up and your alarm goes off.”

I nodded quietly, weighing the pros and cons of telling her that I felt refreshed and great. Surely, the moral reward of self-sacrifice for her fellow man—or woman, currently—would quell her suffering.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR BODY?” she said loudly, like she was deaf to her own voice. “Why can’t I sleep?”

“I have a sleeping disorder?” I offered questioningly.