Isaac/Ainsley: This City Should Not Exist

Peggy Hill was right about this place. The instant we set foot outside the airport in Phoenix, Heather and I got kicked in the stomach with an unending onslaught of hundred-and-five-degree heat magnified by all the concrete and asphalt. I get why a lot of the girls my age around here wear basically nothing, especially if they're forced to go out in the afternoon, but that's not enough to get me to partake and neither was Heather making fun of me when she saw me digging out an old ASU sweater from Ainsley's closet. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Clearly, I made it to Phoenix without totally collapsing into a pit of self-pity and anxiety, or at least not a bad enough one to cave and find a non-cursed motel to shut myself in until my bank account runs dry. But before that, I had to deal with the homework the Inn gives to all its guests, which I'd put off like the rest of the homework I've done in my life.

Sitting in my Inn room very early last Wednesday morning, after being up all night freaking out about the impending flight, I had two obligations to choose from: Turn on Ainsley's phone, or write my letter. Contacting Ainsley could wait a little longer, but I'd have to leave my phone behind at the Inn for my body's future occupant and despite my trepidation with truly entering Ainsley's world I'm still too phone-addicted to go without one for too long. I needed it for my boarding pass regardless. After staring at the thing for too long, only at the backside (floral case up) to avoid having to confront my reflection for any unnecessary second, I pressed the side button, felt the vibration and slid that thing under the bed as if it were a grenade about to go off in my hand. Not now, Ainsley. It was time to distract myself from a problem by solving another one.

The actual content of the letter was the easy part. My life is not complicated (before now, anyway). That's sort of the problem-- my life might be kind of barren, but that'll only help someone slip into it. And I'm young, even if I'm not exactly a gym rat I'm still certain that twenty is much younger than the average age of an Inn guest. Is it that crazy to be paranoid about someone stealing my life? Is that what everyone around my age who goes to the Inn thinks? If anything I got off easy only gaining an extra five years-- maybe this is the luck Heather was talking about. Regardless, I hate thinking about somebody else walking around in my skin, and that's only made worse knowing that somebody got my body two days ago. Much sooner than I expected, by the way. Heather and I haven't heard anything (and yeah, I know, I have no right to criticize with how long it took me). I might ask Penny if she saw anything but I'm assuming she was understandably distracted.

All those thoughts made the solid five minutes of constant vibrating from under the bed slightly more ignorable. It took way longer than that to agonize over my two-paragraph letter, but the second I finished I grabbed the phone before I could let myself overthink it, in a fit of rage about how I'd cowardiced myself out of getting to sleep that night. My bravery rewarded me with a lock screen full of hundreds of missed texts, calls, group chats (at least one of which had a conversation going even at this hour), and some very concerning emails from some kind of kennel. Any courage I had quickly evaporated and I was like, screw it. Ainsley's left these people hanging for two weeks, they can wait a little longer.

Heather came to drag me out of the room before I could beat myself up too much. Since our blowup at the diner we've had an unspoken agreement to pretend it didn't happen, which is good enough for me. Or maybe not, since if she was pissed at me she wouldn't have spent the entire ride up to the Portland airport talking my ear off. Hell, maybe that was her revenge. It's the kind of thing she'd do.

"And around when Violet came along– that would've been when I was 31 by the way, so she's the same age as we are right now, gosh that's fun– that's when it all went to shit. Not 'cause of Violet, love the girl, wish I could see her more but she moved out to LA, she's the best. But I think it happened because Dave finally got into his head that having more kids wasn't gonna fix the marriage. And it took him three to realize that! Come on! So his heart wasn't in it anymore. And yeah, I started seeing Kenneth who was a VP at the school I was working at at the time, and I know it was cheating– I didn't know Dave had already been actually cheating on me at the time, but I knew he was emotionally cheating on me, so. You get it. Anyway it all blew up around when Jack was finishing middle school and I had to move to the next county over and it's, it's a complete mess. And I thought it would've been better once I finally got back to the dating game, but no, there was this guy at the bar, Jack, and yeah I know it's the same name as my oldest so that was weird but at that point I hardly ever saw him–"

You get the idea. I wonder if she does that to everyone or if it's only because I appear to be a woman the same age as her. By the time we boarded our first plane I knew far more than I ever wanted to about Heather Flynn and her life, even accounting for how I didn't retain more than a quarter of it. And so did our very confused and admirably silent rideshare driver.

Throughout all this I managed to go out into the world as a woman without having a visible panic attack. Mostly I just spent the whole trip staring at the ground and trying to avoid eye contact with anyone, which is a more extreme version of how I'd already been spending my vacation before any of this happened. But that's harder than it sounds in settings like air travel where you're constantly up in other people's personal space. Like the middle seat, for instance. Heather and I naturally ended up with two middle seats about ten rows away, with how late we booked the tickets. I could already notice people looking at me differently– some with lust, probably, but considering my baggy clothes and disastrous appearance not nearly as much as there could be. Instead people seemed to look kinder at me? Maybe? Like they think I'm harmless. That could just be me reading too hard into reactions I only see for a split second before turning away, but it'd explain the old man in the window seat who spent much of the second leg from Philly to Phoenix trying to tell me about his grandkids. There went the one good thing about being seated apart from Heather.

But I made it to that curb outside baggage claim where I doubled over from the heat. At some point, I had no choice but to just ignore other people, put my head down, and try to make it to my next point of relative safety with as little disruption as possible. The psychology changes from procrastinating entering the public world for as long as possible, to charging ahead at full speed just to get things over with. The sink-or-swim metaphor is a cliché because it's true.

That didn't stop me from collapsing on the couch and crying a little bit the moment Heather and I got into the apartment. I shut out everything: the last three days, the feeling of my chest against the cushions, the walls covered in tacky tapestries, Heather talking about how those girls are better decorators than she was at their age, everything. Ainsley's friends wondering when she'll come back from her "digital detox vacation" and arguing about whether Pedro Pascal is actually a good actor. The real Ainsley, who I was still failing. Figuring out how I'm going to be Ainsley, which I still hadn't really done at that point. Even the ominously empty dog crate and the fur lingering on the couch.

I've dealt with most of those things in the last week, but reliving the trip over here has me almost as drained as I was then. I'll keep you guys updated with my harrowing adventures. Hopefully before I start with Ainsley's job, but she managed to work out a pretty generous emergency leave deal so I've still got a little while. (I suspect nudging people to be lenient with employees disappearing from work for several weeks is part of the "nobody believes you" aspect of the Inn's curse-- you'd think way more of us would've lost our jobs!)

Arthur/Penny: Substitute Millie

I haven't had a reason to come back to Old Orchard Beach since I became Penelope after Jermy decided he was talking my life, and I can't remember if I liked it the first time around.  I was a young man and probably cynical about vacation/tourist spots, figuring they're not real or authentic, but between being older and having home on vacations with Millie, I think I understand their appeal a bit more.  These places have a goal and a function that I can probably appreciate anywhere else, but being sick in one when you are not happy, and feel like you have to guard against any attempt of the place to make you happy, is a certain sort of Hell.

I spent the whole week doing things I know are bad for me.  Eating at the worst fast good restaurants so I don't have any fond memories of the trip, holding my phone in my hands all the time just in case Millie decided to call, even though it's terrible for your mental health.  I texted and left messages to everybody in my Inn network, but was kind of curt with everyone, even Ray, mad he wasn't there to help even though I'm the one who said to hold the fort at home.

It could have gotten expensive, too, but Cary knew a guy who knew a guy, and I was able to hunker down in a little cottage that had been rented by a Canadian man who wasn't coming to the U.S. this year.  I didn't get a whole lot of work on the new book, being in no mental state to edit, especially when I took a deck chair and moved to the Trading Post's porch ahead of the new groups arriving on Thursday.  I wanted to at least have a look at the folks who would be in Room 4.

They didn't show up until late Friday, a couple of tattooed twenty-somethings who just absolutely could not keep their hands off each other, digging right into the fronts of each other's pants right in the off-street parking and yelling an enthusiastic "fuck off" to anyone who looked at them cross-wise.  I could immediately see into the future and what the school administration and coaches were going to be calling me about, especially if the guy wound up as Millie.  And there wasn't much time, because, sitting on the porch, I'd felt the tingle.

A lot of Inn people don't actually believe in the tingle; they either never registered it, figure those who claim to have felt something the afternoon before the change are retroactively drawing a connection, or just kind of dismiss the idea that magic can reach back in time, because cause precedes effect no matter what.  Despite being affected by something otherworldly, Inn folks as a group do not really believe in fate, more likely to see the place as something chaotic even if we settle into a new life and like it.  I figure there's no reason magic can't send ripples up and down the timeline, even if it does lead to me doing something I hadn't really considered before I felt it, although it seemed to make complete sense once it occurred to me.

So when I saw they had Room 4, I offered them the place I was staying in exchange.  It just made so much sense, even though I hadn't really considered it before doing it.  I'd been reaching out to people I know who might agree to be Millie until next year (Ashlyn actually might have done it if she and her boyfriend weren't on a cruise) and making plans for how to deal with someone who decides it might be a decent life, but when it comes right down to it, who else can I really trust? 

They thought I was nuts, but went along with it.  I let them drive me to the house, grabbed my luggage, and made my way back with the key.

Then I took a deep breath as I opened the door.  The room was still set up with a queen bed, Millie's backpack on one side and this other woman's suitcase on the other, and I took the bedding off to form a little next on the floor next to Millie's backpack.  I recognized that I was gambling at this point - first, it would be logical that they placed their bags on the sides of the room that corresponded to where they slept, but not certain, because folks don't necessarily figure out the minimal distance thing after just one trip to the Inn.  Honestly, there's still some holes in the theory - like, if things work out that there are ten people right on top of where the last person was in the center of the building, but the rooms on the ends have 1 and 2, but in different arrangements in separate visits, will one person change into someone all the way on the other side, or does whatever this force is go for the shortest total distance?  Also, by doing this, was I potentially closer to someone on the other side of the wall than where Millie had been?  Still, it was the best I could do.

Having a plan felt good, and I decided to indulge myself a bit, taking a cab into Portland, dropping a c-note on a nice dinner (including what I figured would be the last drinks I'd be having for the better part of a year), and coming back to the Inn full and buzzed and thinking that the person who wakes up as Penny in a couple weeks or so was going to have a stomachache and a hangover, and I should probably apologize for it in the letter.  I'd stopped at a 7-11 to get some of the energy drinks Millie likes that I usually find gross and popped one open so that I'd be awake for the change.

Around 2am, I set my phone up and started recording, figuring that if someone younger than me wound up becoming Penny, they might appreciate video over text, and assurances that there wasn't multiple layers of deception going on among the people with whom they'd soon be sharing a home.  It meant I got to watch myself change, and changing into one's daughter is a trip - it feels less like your face is turning into someone else's than you're noticing how much you have in common, right up until the moment when something she has that you don't shows up.  I noticed that my hair hadn't been that long in a while or that dark since I was Liz before any almond shape to my eyelids showed up, and then I pulled my knee up to my chin and, yeah, I keep in shape and have nice legs, but skinny 13-year-old legs are something else.  My pajamas were feeling a bit loose all around, and when I stood I could tell that the top and bottom overlapped a little more than they did before, although at the rate Millie's been growing, I'll probably be shrinking again in spring.

I stood up to take a proper look in the mirror, and immediately recognized that even if the alcohol in my body hadn't vanished with the change (and I honestly don't know whether it did or not; it's another thing you get different accounts of), I still bounced to my feet with ease.  Nell had been a college and (briefly) professional athlete, and I spend a fair amount of time in the gym to not waste what I had inherited, but it felt downright rude of the Inn to remind me that there is indeed a big difference between how a 40-something woman making her best effort looks and feels and how a sporty 13-year-old girl looks and feels.  I took a good look at Millie's face in the mirror, though as someone who has been through this I wasn't sure what I was expecting to find.  A beauty mark that hadn't changed?  Something missing?  Lines that didn't completely vanish?  Whatever it was, I suddenly felt like the caffeine was out of my system, and I flopped down on the bed immediately.

By the time I woke up the next morning - Millie can sleep in! - most of the screaming was done, and a note had been slipped under the door asking if there was an extra bag in my room.  I resolved to knock on the next door, but had to go to the bathroom first.  It all seemed normal enough until I was about to wipe and suddenly had a flashback to when I first became Liz and felt like this was a huge invasion of privacy, that I was now going to have to interact with someone else's private parts - a child! my child! - every day for months.  I gritted my teeth and told myself it was better than the alternative, but I still opted to hit myself with some spray deodorant rather than hit the shower, and practically looked away from examining myself in the mirror.  I knew from experience that I couldn't avoid this forever, but felt like putting it off.

There was a text from Ray saying that he was on the train when I checked my phone, and I replied saying it happened last night and I'd meet him at the station.  Then I gave the woman next door her new clothes and phone and wallet - she looked askance at the opened letter but and then her jaw dropped when I explained the very good reason and extracted a promise to call me as soon as she heard from the person whose life she was taking over, especially if they mentioned Millie - and then headed out.  I had a couple hours before the train arrived, and I needed to make a Dunkin' run (apparent teenagers buying breakfast sandwiches and coffee on a Saturday apparently not that unusual) and buy a change of clothes.  

Once i'd changed into them, eyes closed as much as possible, I made my way to the train station.  It was a little late, as is the Downeaster's wont, but I spotted Ray right away and jumped up, waving my hand in the air.  He saw me and started running toward me like he thought I was really Millie and was going to jump into his arms, before realizing that wasn't the case and stopping a little short, and awkwardly extending a hand.  "Hey, I guess we're going to be seeing a lot of each other.  I guess you must recognize me from the photos on Millie's phone, but where's Penny?  I was under the impression you'd met your mother for the duration."

"Uh, I'm right here, hon."  It suddenly seemed to dawn on us both that my messages had sort of said all the things I had done over the past few days but hadn't exactly put them together.  We started for a couple of seconds and then he pulled me into a hug.  "My God, Penny, what have you done?"

I started crying.  "The only thing I could think of to do!  I mean, who else are we going to trust with Millie's life?  Maybe Ashlyn if she were around, but--"

"But she's on that cruise, and it would be so much to ask of her."  I could feel the sigh that moved his entire body before he pulled back to give me a kiss, but froze when he saw my new face, hugging me close again.  "I wish you'd explained everything yesterday, so I could help."

I shrugged.  "How?  You'd just try to stay in the room with me, to increase the odds that one of us became Millie, only then we'd probably wind up separated and with all sorts of mess to deal with when it came to change back!  The next ten months or so are going to have enough moving parts as it is, and I kind of need you steady."  I paused as he gave me a strange look.  "Not that I was planning this, mind you, I was just kind of careless in my texting, but this is still probably the best case situation."

"And it sucks."

"It sucks so much!  I thought I'd be able to handle it but I've freaked out at least three times since 2am, and I've got no idea whether she'll thank me for this or never forgive me.  And now, she's not going to have, you know."

He didn't for a second, but then it clicked.  "It could still happen."

I shook my head.  "Maybe, but you know they were talking about preparing for menopause and how dangerous 'geriatric pregnancies' can be at my last physical.  And we're not going to try and sell the new me on the idea - you've talked to Jonah-slash-Krystle, and maybe you can say her situation's unique, but you know changing this much does weird things to your head, and even someone who said they would just act as an unconventional surrogate--"

He put his finger on my lips, which took me aback; it was something he would occasionally do with Millie when she was motor-mouthing off on a tangent, but not with me, and, again, he seemed to realize it after half a second.  "Hey, let's just worry about the kid we've got and not some hypothetical other one, okay?"  I nodded.  "Have you heard anything?"

I shook my head.  "No, but I'm pretty sure my neighbor will work on her predecessor.  Millie might be stubborn, but this other woman's a mom, and she'll get it."

"Absolutely."  He looked around.  "So, do you want to hang around here at all, or just get on the next train south?"

"Oh, next train south, absolutely!  Although..."  I took out my phone and checked the time.  "We've got a couple hours to decide what's staying in the room and what's coming with us - I'm going to need my writing laptop, for example - and maybe grab some hot dogs and let Cary and Krys know the latest and see if they can watch out for anything."  I tried to grin.  "Maybe he'll have some advice for you about what to do with a tween who thinks she knows everything because she's really an adult!"

He quarter-laughed - it was only half a joke but neither of us really felt like joking - and then we started walking toward the Inn.

-Arthur/Liz/Penny/Millie

Marc/Dustin: Early Risers

As days passed, we started to develop our routine, inasmuch as eight or nine people (there's one guy drifting around named Garrison and I'm not entirely sure where he fits in) can have a routine. Naturally, John, Mary and I stick by one another, which I don't think is all that eyebrow-raising for the others, especially with Dustin and Dakota being an item. They were close enough to go on vacation together, and beyond "Wow, didn't you get enough of each other already" between the "girls," there's clearly a dynamic there that people are free to interpret. What are they doing having sleepovers in the basement every night? That's nobody's business - it's 2025, after all, right?

I found out early on that Dustin is an early riser. All my previous bodies had the sort of sleep cycles you would expect -- as Ryan I sometimes stayed out late but would end up sleeping in equally late. But Dustin seems to have an ability to wake up at 5:00 AM no matter how late he was up the night before, and still be brimming with energy. It's been borderline supernatural (well, I guess it's literally supernatural.)

At first I resisted this -- I really do like sleep -- but when it became obvious I wasn't going to get any more sleep and my body was ready to start the day, I decided to do something, so I went for a walk, which seemed the most sensible way to burn off energy without disturbing the rest of the house. Then as I was walking I thought why don't I see what it would be like to run? So I started to run, and I ran and I ran and I ran, and my legs just kept carrying me, without even thinking about how soon should I turn around in case I get out of breath. I ran as far as the local athletic center, really only a few blocks away, which I reached without tiring. I returned home and saw that, sure enough, I had a membership card. 

So the next day, I decided to go in. It's not hard to imagine this being Dustin's routine, running to the gym, spending twenty minutes on the rowing machine or the elliptical, lifting some weights, and then running back. Only then did I feel somewhat spent. This body is something else.

After a few days of that, I returned to the house today to see Mary sitting on the porch. She was waiting for me with a mug of coffee for each of us.

"A tablespoon of milk, a bt of sugar," she said.

"Wow," I nodded, "That's just how I take it." I sipped and told her it was right on.

She smiled. "I like to notice things about people who are important to me."

That made me blush a little bit. "Oh, am I...?" I stammered.

"Of course," she sipped her own coffee, "You and John and I share this secret. You've been... a stabilizing influence. And you're a nice person. Even when we disagree on things."

"I do what I can," I muttered, trying to downplay whatever goodness she sees in me. "Are you always up this early?' It was not yet 7 AM.

"I like to be," she said, "I'm trying to get on a better sleep schedule, but it's tough. This body is resisting my efforts. Have you noticed these garden plots here? They've got a lot of potential, but nobody's tending them. I thought that could be my project."

"I'm no green thumb, but isn't it a bit late in the season?"

She sipped and shrugged. Maybe she knew better than I did, or maybe she had other reasons for wanting to be up early and the garden was just an excuse.

"How's John?" I asked. Of course I had seen plenty of him that week, but we hadn't had a lot of private time lately -- nor would I have wanted to.

"John's... John," she said, then laughed musically because of course, John isn't John, to the world. John is the John that he is when he's Dakota, and do we really know what that means yet? In fact, given all that John hides from Mary, do we really know who John is?

"Things are all right between you two?" I asked, hopefully, but trying not to pry.

She looked down into her cup and smirked bashfully. "Next question, please."

"Okay, so tell me about Mary," I said. It occurred to me that I know strangely little about the woman in her own words.

"I'm going to be 48 on September 1," she said, "Where does the time go? Married for 18 years. Together for 24." She got a faraway look as she seemed to contemplate how that was half her life.

"Kids?" I asked. "I don't mean to pry." John had once said something about a daughter, but the topic hadn't come up with Mary.

"John does, from his previous marriage. They don't speak." Mary didn't let on how she felt about that. She abruptly changed the subject. "I would love to ask Cassandra what possessed her to get all these tattoos. Look at this."

She held out her left forearm and there written in script -- amidst colorful butterflies and birds and flowers that comprised that sleeve -- were the words "BE YOU TO A T."

"Isn't that funny?" she snickered. "I keep staring at it, since it's been etched in my arm without my permission. What a thing to see when you are being someone else."

"To thine own self be true," I said, "I think that's Shakespeare."

"Polonius from Hamlet," she nodded. "Of course, he was a windbag. Among the Bard's best jokes."

"I didn't know you were an expert," I said.

"I was studying literature when I met John," she said, and got that faraway look again. "A lifetime ago."

"Multiple, some would say."

"I haven't lived a lifetime as Cassie... yet," she snickered.

We both sipped, letting that remark hang in the air. Soon after that I heard a rustle at the door and Ifena joined us and we had to get into character.

-Marc/Dustin

Rusty/Monica: Is it weird to celebrate the anniversary of the Inn changing you?

Dad and Katey and I are already celebrating two birthdays each, and while I don't really look at the blog much beyond seeing if anyone commented on my posts, I do see that the folks who change at this time of year don't exactly seem happy about it, so maybe last night's thing was in kind of bad taste?

The really weird thing is that it was Dad's idea.  I don't think he's really become happier to be Emilia in the last couple months, even now that she's not scared of what's between her legs, but she really wants me and Katey to be reassured that she's not mad at us for wanting to stay like this, so I think she kid of overdoes it sometimes.

Sometimes I think she's kind of screwing with us.  Like, she apparently likes the beach now?  I mean, she says she liked going to the beach back when she was a teenager and loved spring break in college - she was in a fraternity! - but do you suddenly just wake up and decide you like walking around in a bikini, even when it's ninety degrees out?  Especially since I don't think that she's going to Coney Island or Fort Tilden or other places with friends from work or book club or the like - just me and Katey, and sometimes Omar, and I don't know that asking us to put lotion on her back is meant to make us feel uncomfortable because the girl who just undid the back of her top is our dad, but...

(Also: I never thought of New York as a place with beaches, but then again, it is all on islands except the Bronx)

I do kind of appreciate that she did this; I was kind of nervous about being on display at the beach even if I don't have any problem with workout clothes that just cover what's necessary and sexy outfits generally.  but apparently I'm okay if it's just a way to hang out with my family and friends, get in the water, get some sun (with appropriately slathered on sunblock, because apparently Dad doesn't sunburn despite being a natural blonde while I sure do) and not, like "here's my whole ass, come and get it!"

Last night, though, was kind of crazy; Dad had bought us matching outfits, like whole matching outfits with shoes and handbags, brought us to the sort of club that was usually not her thing, and did a champagne toast before hitting the dance floor.  We mostly danced with each other, but she didn't often say no when a guy bought her a drink or asked her to dance.  Around 1am, she was starting to stumble in her heels and didn't really look like she was having fun any more, so we loaded ourselves into a cab.  She insisted on getting an ice cream cake saying "Happy Inn-iversary" on it out of the freezer and making sure we each got a piece before going to bed.

She was really hung over this morning, and Katey and I told her she didn't have to do stuff like that or pretend she was really into taking up how the original Emilia was apparently kind of a party girl, and she swore up and down that she just wanted to mark the occasion and that she wasn't doing anything she didn't want to do.  "I'm an adult woman who used to be an adult man, and I know what i'm doing," she says.

I didn't believe her this morning, but now I'm kind of wondering after writing this if the reason this all seems in bad taste is that celebrating one year doesn't just mean celebrating how Katey and I have done well as grown-up women, but also that Dad is kind of no longer Dad, that he's becoming someone different that likes guys and treats us like friends or sisters rather than her kids and that maybe we won't be able to turn to her to know what we should be doing.  Katey doesn't seem too worried about it, and neither does Dad, so maybe it's just me.

-Rusty/Monica

Marc/Dustin: Crowded House

I want to preface this by saying I have been piecing it together over the last few days but I am aware that some crazy stuff is going on in Maine and playing out on the blog. I reached out to Ryan to see if he crossed paths with Millie and he did have information about a person that seems to have been relevant -- I've connected him with Arthur/Penny through available channels for whatever that's worth, and hopefully that helps.

All this to say, I know the experiences and tribulations of my little crew seems like the proverbial hill of beans, but in case you could use a change of pace, some of us are just out here attempting to live "our" lives. To the rest, good luck!

--

Six bedrooms. Eight bodies. Two bathrooms. Welcome back to your twenties.

Dustin, Dakota and Cassie live not far from their alma mater in a house that was built sometime between the wars, the kind of creaky, musty place without natural light and with substandard wiring that you settle for when you've finished undergrad and just need to drop your bags somewhere. There are four bedrooms up top, including Dustin & Dakota's. Cassie's is one of two in the basement. Common areas include a cramped kitchen, a front porch (mostly occupied by the cannabis users in the house) and a back deck that probably needs a few boards replaced but is otherwise quite good.

As we pulled up, I saw Mary eyeing the place. "Why do I have a feeling... I'm going to be doing a lot of sweeping and scrubbing?"

"Don't be negative, Mare," John chided.

"No, she's got a point," I said, "We're adults, used to certain standards of living. These kids are just out of school. There's a good chance we're going to feel like their parents."

"Thank you, Marc," Mary said. "I knew I liked you."

"I guess it's Dustin now," I said, "Once we open these car doors, we'll be within earshot of people who think they know us."

I could see Mary's hesitance. I certainly couldn't blame her. I do have a tendency to forget that others haven't lived with this as long as I have, aren't accustomed to going from life to life the way I've become. I wonder if it's becoming harder for me to relate to other people ... not that I ever had a really easy time with that to begin with.

"So what do we do?" Mary asked.

"We just... be," John shrugged, not doing a very good job seeming like this is new to him. "It'll be fun. It'll be like Big Brother."

Mary smiled and rubbed John's shoulder, then leaned forward from the backseat to kiss him on the cheek. I can always detect an improvement in Mary's mood when John plays optimistic -- seeing her "husband" who has become a girl adapt so quickly inspires her to be confident. If she knew the truth, perhaps that wouldn't quite be the case.

Then the doors opened and I popped the trunk. We each took our bags up the porch and -- forcing myself to pretend like I/we belong here -- I took the knob and pushed through.

We lingered a moment in the front hallway. Mary stuck her head around to the available rooms. "Not bad, not bad," she muttered to herself. The place wasn't exactly an IKEA Showroom, but it was reasonably tidy.

"What's not bad?" asked one of the girls who lives there -- from the description Dakota left, I deduced this was Ifena, a first-generation daughter of Nigerian immigrants.

"The place, it's... looking good," she stammered, obviously not accustomed to lying to a person's face like this.

"Yeah, it's because you three weren't here," Ifena smirked. "You know how PJ is."

"Right, PJ," Mary nodded. PJ, we learned from the girls' notes, is the other occupant of the basement. They are gender non-binary, which I guess kind of gives us something in common since I've spent time as both, not to mention going back and forth on my sexual orientation. But I gather that they and Dustin are not exactly close.

My sense overall is that the house mostly represents Dakota's social circle -- it's mostly girls after all -- and that Dustin is sort of an add-on, as the boyfriend.

Next to come thumping down the stairs was Jaspal, whose room with his girlfriend Madison is next to Dustin and Dakota's. He immediately slapped me a handshake and told me in bro-language about some accomplishment in some video game and I nodded like I understood.

Not long after that was the arrival of Charly, shorter than Dakota with curly red hair, who had some bags of groceries in tow. "Oh, you guys are back," she said breathlessly. I rushed over to help with one of the heavier bags, and John followed suit by making a grab at the water jug for the communal cooler -- which he immediately regretted as he was unable to heave the damn thing.

"So much for chivalry," he muttered to me after, clearly feeling embarrassed.

"Don't worry about it," I shrugged, heaving the thing over my shoulder with ease. "I don't think anyone was expecting Dakota to be able to lift that."

"Maybe not," he sighed under his breath so only I could hear, "But it was a reality check for this guy."

I wanted to point out that he wasn't exactly a heavyweight when he was Cayden, but of course Mary was within earshot and discussing our past experience was out of bounds. I guess what he was saying that he feels like as an adult he should be a certain level of strength or whatever, and was disappointed that in some ways this body has more in common with a 10-year-old's than his grown self.

Mary rubbed John's shoulders again in comfort, and I wondered whether the others would take note of the way they were hovering near one another in a more-than-friendly way.

Those of us who were present made a communal dinner and the three of us pretty much just kept our mouths shut and observed, unless directly addressed. There weren't really questions about where we'd been -- I guess when you're twenty-two and unemployed and you want to take an extra two weeks on your beach vacation, nobody bats an eyelash, even if Cassie ended up leaving her service job over it.

--

Afterwards, I went upstairs to unpack and found "our" room -- very much a girl's room, with furniture that had probably been following Dakota for years, and Dustin more or less fitting all of his stuff into the closet. As I contemplated what-goes-where, I heard the door close behind me -- John had slipped in. Dakota can be very light on her toes.

"So..." I started to say, observing the double bed that sure did look... cozy.

"You can unclench," John said, "I'm going to sleep with Mary... for now. Cassie's bed is plenty big for two, as long as one of them is Dakota," he smiled and waved his hand over his slender figure.

We agreed that it wasn't necessary for John and I to share a bedroom to "keep up appearances" -- Dustin and Dakota are twenty-two-year-olds dating, not an old married couple. There's leeway there, we think, and if questions are raised, they could have answers that are not 'we were magically transformed into other people and it's very complicated beyond that.'

"How do you think that will go?" I asked.

"It's a win-win," John shrugged, "Cassie's quite attractive, don't you think?"

"I guess so," I nodded hesitantly -- it's clear to anyone with eyes to see, as long as you don't mind a lot of ink, but in the moment I certainly wasn't going to push the point hard.

"And she keeps telling me how cute I am, you know, when she brushes my hair and helps me pick out an outfit. Perhaps there are some sparks there."

"I'm happy for you, if so," I said coolly -- I'm not entirely sure it will play out that way, but it's not for me to know.

John turned toward the full-length mirror and examined himself, his posture, his stance. He stands up straight and he's Dakota, he slouches and he's John again. "It's taking a lot of getting used to, you know. Looking like this. Being looked at like this. Come here."

I stood behind him. He guided my hands to his hips, which caused me to freeze briefly before pulling away in embarrassment.

"I just wanted to see," he tittered. "They do make a nice couple."

"Go to your wife, John," I sat on the bed, exasperated.

"After I finish putting away what few clean pairs of underwear I have left, Dustin," he snickered wickedly at me.

I laid on the bed and stared up at the ceiling while he worked away. A moment later, he said, "You know, if it doesn't work out in Mary's bed, I could always just camp out."

"Huh?" I sat up.

"Sure," he said with a grin, "Looks like plenty of room in tent you're pitching."

I looked down and sure enough, Little Dustin was making his presence known -- I had thought it was a little more inconspicuous. I rolled over and buried my head in the pillow, saying a muffled, "You can leave now!"

"I couldn't help myself," he said with a cackle as he left, closing the door behind. I kept my face buried and tried to clear my mind. This was a little different to what I've been used to... even as Ryan, it took a lot more to rev me up. I haven't had sex with a woman in years (since the very night of my first transformation, as it happens) and between Dustin's young body and my psyche, something got very excited about such a minor touch. Part of me -- I'm a bit ashamed to say -- was glad to be back as a "straight guy," in such a clear and decisive fashion. 

Now if only there were an appropriate way to channel that... besides the obvious.

-Marc/Dustin

Isaac/Ainsley: Public

I hadn't eaten just under forty-eight hours.

I understand, abstractly, that I have no choice but to fly to Phoenix and live as Ainsley Thomas, not unless I want to be living out of hotels until I run out of money. I can see, logically, that I will wear Ainsley's clothes, attempt to not entirely destroy her career, and somehow navigate whatever her social life is like. I will generally exist in public as this woman with the expectation to act like this is completely normal and my entire life hasn't just been run over by an entire cavalcade of eighteen-wheelers. In the near future, I will actually bother to reach out to her about any of this instead of leaving her hanging about whoever's now apparently in charge of her life.

But that future, no matter how little choice I have, feels an unimaginable gulf away from the present. Since I met Heather the day before I left my room exactly once: rushing to the lobby to grab one of the bagels they put out, and then getting the hell out of there. That's hard enough despite knowing everyone in the Inn understands my situation, meaning social standards are meaningless. Going out in public is... different. Every fear I already had about making the general public uncomfortable feels ten times more justified now. I feel like everyone can tell I'm not supposed to look like this, even though reading the blog tells me not only that it's not true, but the Inn's magic actively works to prevent this. But sure, I can look like a woman, and nobody's going to believe I turned into one two days ago, but I can't walk or talk or act like one! And that's what randoms would notice. Clearly, Inn guests have managed to thread the needle, but probably by not thinking too hard about it. So it's too bad for me that I was put on this planet to overthink. I'm going to be an accountant, that's good in my line of work!

I was in the middle of doing exactly that when I heard another bang on the door from the only person it could've been. "Isaac! Hey. We need to talk about flights. They're not getting any cheaper and I haven't seen you all day. Wanna get dinner?"

"I'm good." Anything to prolong the inevitable a little more. "We can talk in here if you want, it's no big--"

"You haven't eaten at all today, have you?"

"I--" I'm a horrible liar sometimes. "You're not my mom!"

"Look buddy, I'm somebody's mom! And I don't know who you really are, but I know what it's like to deal with a scared teenager who won't leave the house because they got a pimple--"

"I'm twenty."

"Oh, wow, twenty, that's a huge difference. But you know what? You're right, I'm not your mom. I'm your roommate. And that means I don't wanna have to mom a roommate who won't leave the apartment, loses their job, and won't pay their half of the rent, okay?"

My sense of shame didn't quite outweigh the crippling social anxiety just yet. "Go eat. We can talk flights when you get back, in here."

"If you wanna starve, suit yourself. But I'm gonna say-- you're going to have to leave the Inn before you know it. We've got two nights left before they kick us out. Do you want your first time out in public as this girl to be going through TSA? Sitting next to a couple strangers in the middle seat of a transcontinental flight? Or, maybe you'd rather chicken out, stiff me with the rent, and stay put. You'd have to go out there and find someplace to stay. Talk to hotel staff and beg for a room. Or... you can come get dinner with me, in a town where nobody gives a crap about who you are. Your choice."

There it is. There's that shame.

---

"Can you quit looking over your shoulder every five seconds?" Heather whined as we walked past the pier towards a diner she'd picked out, too slowly for my tastes. I like to walk so fast sometimes people tell me it's scary. "I'm telling you, nobody cares. It just makes you stick out even more if you look to the whole world like you're hiding from the cops."

I fiddled a bit with my shirt. Most of Ainsley's vacation wardrobe was fairly... minimal, but she fortunately had some dirty jeans and a baggy T-shirt reading DELTA PANCAKEFEST '19 with some graphics of pancakes and a list of participating sororities. And, terrifyingly yet most mercifully of all, a sports bra. Good enough for me, I'll probably wear the same thing on the flight over.

"You talked me out of that room, okay?" I muttered, as if there were some reason everyone walking by would find it strange that someone appearing to be a young woman sounds like a young woman. "Don't push your luck."

Heather rolled her eyes. "You're gonna have to get used to people looking at you even if you're not doing it wrong. 'S how it is for girls our age."

We finally made into the diner before I could reflect too hard on that. I grimaced a bit when the hostess referred to us as ladies, but at least she sat us down a relatively out-of-the-way booth, as if she could tell I'm a wreck who can't handle the slightest bit of eye contact right now.

"So," I broke the silence once we'd ordered. "I have to ask. How are you handling this so well?" I spoke quietly, wary of any normies listening inn, despite knowing full well this can't possibly be the first Inn-related conversation to be had in that diner. "Seriously. You act like I'm the weird one for freaking out. What about this situation isn't freakout-able? Is this not your first time through the Inn?"

"Oh honey, I work in a high school," Heather smirked, her volume indicating her clear disregard for anyone who might hear. "You don't get through seventeen years of that by freaking out, I'll tell you. So yeah, this is my first time at the Inn. Ever had to talk to twenty angry parents at once who can't believe their previous little babies ran a cheating ring? This ain't nothin'. Also helps that Sara's a pretty little thing. Could be worse."

I decided to ignore that last part. "Yeah, well. I would've thought you'd be nicer if you're a teacher."

Heather just laughed. "What, you never had an asshole teacher? You'd be surprised." A waitress came by to take our order before she continued. "But I never said I'm a teacher. I'm an administrator, and that means I'm a meat shield the principal uses whenever she can't be damned to break it to a parent that their kid's a little hellraiser. You gotta be mean sometimes, and you need thick skin in a job like that. Thick skin, Ainsley."

"Do you have to call me that?"

"You're gonna have to get used to it," she said as she glanced at her phone. "She's not happy you haven't talked to her, y'know."

"You've been talking to Ainsley!?" I raised my voice for the first time all day. Somehow, it felt like a breach of privacy even though that doesn't make any sense.

"I've been talking to Sara since yesterday. Ainsley's the one who needs to play telephone with her about getting a word out to you. Seems like she's got a lot going on she'd rather talk to you about than put in that letter. Gonna need to talk before we hit Phoenix, y'know."

I went back to staring at the table and sighed. "I'll get around to it."

For the first time, Heather looked more genuinely angry than condescending. "You and your procra-- You know? God, what do you want whoever's stuck with your life to act like? Y-you want radio silence while you wait to find out if they might not completely ruin you? You don't want to know if it's an infant, or an old man with dementia, or some complete basket case who--"

That, for all my worries about taking over a strange woman's life and appearing as her in public, was the one thing I'd avoided thinking about the hardest. I do not want to confront what could happen to my life-- I still haven't written my letter. It's the single most bone-chillingly mortifying thing imaginable. "What is your problem?!" An uncomfortably shrill voice rose from the diner table. "Thick skin, thick skin-- can you just get off my back for one goddamn second! Why does how I am handling the single most insane and least like thing that's ever happened to me affect you in any way? I know I don't have a choice but to figure it out, okay? You think I'm not reminded of that every time I see my reflection? If you're not my mom, then treat me like a fucking adult who can handle his own problems."

Too late, I realized that, no matter how stress-inducing she is, talking to Heather was distracting me from my paranoia of being stared at. Now there were more than a few stares, stares at that girl who'd just bitched out in front of her friend and interrupted the meal of every poor, innocent tourist.

What a freak I am. I gasped, shrank in my seat, and went back to staring at the table.

"You don't understand how lucky we are," Heather muttered. Neither of us said a word for the next ten minutes before we finally got around to talking about flights.

I can see, logically, that Heather and I will eventually reach an acceptable mutual tolerance as roommates. I understand, abstractly, that I have no choice but to stop being such a coward.

But not today.

Isaac/Ainsley: Roommate

 "Ainsley? Ainsley, you in there?" Another few knocks on the door. I dutifully ignored them before remembering I look like an Ainsley and getting run over by another anxiety spike.

"Look, if you're listening this is the only room where nobody's come out yet," continued a young woman's voice. She knocked again. "I'm Sara, if that means anything to you yet. Or, I look like her, but you get what I'm saying." Another, louder knock. "Tell me you're not a runner. That poor woman said her daughter ran off and I can't--"

Yet again, I couldn't take it anymore. Paralysis gave way to the irresistible restless urge to do something, anything to change the situation. It's a cold comfort that this new body hasn't changed my habit of caving in the most awkward way possible. "I'm here-- oh!" My hand shot up to my mouth as it hit me that I hadn't actually spoken since yesterday. I sound like an auto dealership owner's daughter, the kind they'd occasionally put on crappy local TV commercials I used to see as a kid. That's oddly specific, but it's what came to mind.

I opened the door once I'd shook myself out of it and threw on my now-oddly clingy T-shirt from yesterday, greeted by a short, stick-thin woman about my age (real or apparent) with shoulder-length straight, light brown hair. "Sorry if I--"

"Oh, yup, about this girl's age. Gotta be her." "Sara" crossed her arms over her chest and tried her hardest to look down at me, despite being shorter. "You read your letter yet?"

I looked at the floor, away from this woman's intimidating gaze, and realized I'm probably the only one left who still hasn't. Kind of embarrassing, even though it really shouldn't be. "I, uh. Haven't gotten around to it."

"Well, c'mon then. We're reading it now." As if she owned the place, Sara slipped right past me through the doorframe and found the luggage in the closet. "We've got some stuff we need to talk about and it'll be good for you to hear most of it from Ainsley herself. But I'll just say, you're my new roommate, and we need to figure out flights to Phoenix before they kick us out of the Inn again."

Phoenix? We couldn't even get somewhere in the Northeast like seemingly three-quarters of the Inn's guests? I only let out the barest complaint at the girl digging through "my" crap. She produced a floral-cased iPhone and some dirty laundry, not having to go to deep to find an envelope. Honestly I'm still not sure which of those items scares me the most.

Sara held out the envelope. "You want it, or am I gonna have to read it for you?" I opted to save the last shreds of my dignity and opened the letter.

It was actually fairly tame, all things considered, though she didn't write very much. Ainsley Thomas, 25, of Phoenix, Arizona. Works a laptop job for a marketing firm currently contracting with a hotel chain-- not a completely impossible job to fake, even if I'm still wincing at the thought of having to spend all day surrounded by the types from the other half of B-school whom I'm all too familiar with. Lots of addresses and passwords. More ominously, the letter ended with instructions to text her as soon as possible, because "you'll need my help keeping track of everyone" and I'm not looking forward to learning what that means. At least it didn't say she's dating anyone, that counts for something.

I didn't notice Sara reading over my shoulder until I finished the letter. I gave her a what-the-hell-are-you-doing look. "Do you mind?"

"Hon, this whole thing is the biggest privacy violation you can imagine. It's not even possible to get more intimate with someone than, y'know. This. There's no secrets anymore."

"It's not like I asked for this." I really didn't like how she sat next to me on the bed, as if she was planning on being there for a while. "There's not anything crazy in the letter, so. Whatever. But for all you know there could've been!"

"Are you always this paranoid?" Sara just cackled. "My real name's Heather, by the way. You?"

I blushed. "Isaac."

Heather wolf-whistled. "Ouch. Guess it's fifty-fifty, but, gotta say, I'm not jealous of the sex change. Good luck with that, bud."

My eyes narrowed-- I didn't need the reminder. "I'm trying not to think about it," I added, suddenly hyperaware of my nipples chafing against my shirt.

Heather looked like she was about to say something but was interrupted by the phone in her hand going off with some unidentifiable 90s-sounding grunge song. (I'm not a fan.) Her eyes widened once she saw the caller ID. "She picks now to-- You're kidding me," she muttered. "Hey, I gotta go figure out how to take this. Talk to you later." And as just quickly as Heather had barged into my room, she mercifully vanished from my life. For now.

What an irritating person. Do you ever remember being a kid going out shopping with your mom, and your mom ran into someone she knows and she'd talk to them for what to a child feels like an eternity? Heather is that friend of your mom's.

Well, I've had worse roommates.

Arthur/Penny: She's Gone

It looks like my fears from Saturday night were right: After tennis practice Saturday morning, my daughter Millie told her friend that she needed to head home, but instead went to North Station and bought a ticket for Old Orchard Beach.  She's tall enough that folks occasionally take her for being further into her teens than she is, and it's not like it's a federal crime to ride Amtrak as an unaccompanied minor.  Or if it is, it doesn't seem to have been enforced.

From there, I gather, she went to the Inn and started looking in windows, asking if there was anything weird about the place, and it didn't dawn on her until after the last train south left that there were likely no hotel rooms open in this beach town and the debit card onto which Ray and I deposit her allowance probably wouldn't be enough to check into one even if it was.  She was apparently sitting on the Inn's front porch when someone asked what was up and said she could stay in her room for the night.

She was lucky number thirteen, and the changes happened that night.

I know this because I decided to head north on Sunday morning, with Ray handling the search in Boston, knocking on all the doors, asking if anyone had seen Millie.  My heart sank when I saw there was a lot of confusion from post-transformation morning.  I explained what was happening to a lot of people - this late in the season, there aren't a lot of Inn veterans there, as chains from the people who were able to switch back in May break - and a couple my apparent age said that they saw her with the talking with their neighbor.  Nobody responded to my knocking, but they shared a bathroom which was unlocked.

I found Millie's backpack in the room.  She had already left.

Trembling, I opened the bag and found a letter on top.  I knew it wasn't for me, but I opened it anyway.

Dear Whoever Opens This:

My name is Millicent Anne Lee, Millie for short.  I came to the Trading Post Inn wondering what my parents meant when they said they weren't entirely my parents, and now I know.  My mom, and maybe my dad, used to be someone else, and now I get a chance to find out what that's like.

Their numbers are in my phone, so you can call them and tell them to pick you up.  They can tell you anything that you need to know about being me until we get a chance to come back, and you can tell them not to worry:  The lady who let me stay in her room last night is going to be with me and will help me out.  I'm a little older now, but not that much, and I think I can handle this situation.

I don't know if I'm ready to tell you or them who I am now yet, though.  I'm still kind of mad that they didn't tell me this.  I'm not running away for good, though, and I'm going to want to be me again as soon as I can.

Please don't do anything weird with my life,

Millie

I sat down on the bed and just cried for a while.  The people from the next room came in and asked if I was all right, and I said no, I wasn't, my daughter was somewhere out there in the world and I didn't know where or who she was.  I allowed that she was smart and mostly responsible, and that Ray and I had tried to raise her to look out for herself and solve problems, but she was still a kid and mad enough at me that she might not ask for help out of spite.

They didn't seem to know what to say, but said they'd be around for the next few hours if I needed to get back in that room.

I nodded, and they went back to their room to give me some privacy.

Obviously, the first thing to do was call Raymond.  He wasn't sure whether to be relieved to know what happened or panicked that this was something much bigger than Millie not checking in before staying over at a friend's house.  He started trying to remember everything he could about teen runaways, saying that most of them came home pretty quickly, and not just because they didn't get very far and realize they've got no resources pretty quickly.  Millie, though, may have the resources of an adult, and who knows what sort of adult?

I immediately realized that someone else might know, and ran across the room to see the bag beside the other bed, opening it up to find the letter they had left for the people in their lives.  It didn't tell me much - she was a woman in her mid-fifties, from somewhere in the Midwest, where she worked in the local town hall.  I looked her name up online, and she seems pretty trustworthy - a relatively young widow, one grown son, involved in her community.  Not much social media, but gently pushes back when conspiracy-minded friends get weird in the comments on Facebook.  You can't really know about people from their online profiles, especially now, but she seems okay.  Unfortunately, she also seems reluctant to disclose her new identity.

Still, the very fact that I have the equipment to give birth to a daughter means that there is an awful lot about this situation that shouldn't be taken for granted.  I've left a note of my own on the desk in the room, although I don't know if it will still be there when the next guests arrive - whoever cleans the Inn has been leaving lost luggage in rooms for at least twenty years, but will they throw that away?

I guess that I'll have to set up shop on the Inn's front porch, if I want to vet who is going to be filling in for Millie.  Ray's offered to join me, but he's got more time in courtrooms than usual this week, so I probably won't see him until Saturday.

What a terrifying and absurd sentence to write.  This isn't my first time in crisis mode as a mom, but I'll bet you can count on one hand the number who have tried to deal with this specific crisis.

-Penny

Isaac/???: Stranger

So I assume that if you're a regular reader of this blog you know what just happened to me and I'm gonna spend my time writing in here instead of doing anything requiring me to actually accept that this all happened to me and SHIT.

I was asleep, for better or worse. Probably better. When I'm out of school or work I'm a night owl to the point of regularly staying up past 4 AM doing absolutely nothing but this whole town kind of bores me to sleep. (I'd give anything to be bored right now.) I still went to bed pretty late though and my first thought on waking up was annoyance with the loud commotion in the hallway interrupting my sleep. I think I actually dozed off again for a little while after that, and I would've had another few hours of blissful ignorance if I didn't roll onto my stomach and notice something wrong with my chest.

Unfamiliar straight blonde hair (a far cry from my Jew-fro) blocked my vision while I fumbled my way out from under the covers. Sitting up only made it more obvious that there's something attached to my chest. It dawned on me what might be happening, but it still took me what felt like far longer than it actually was to psych myself up and pat my crotch. Or even do anything besides lie back on the bed and look at the ceiling, really. Because that's what I do when I get bad news I can't do anything about: I ignore it. I put myself in a hermetic seal until I can't stand it anymore.

Lying on the bed and doing literally nothing, as it turns out, doesn't shut myself off from sensation. There's obviously weight on my chest but the sheer newness of every sensation was enough to make zoning out impossible. The nothingness between my legs is so conspicuous. Hair brushed my shoulders and entangled itself against the pillow... Even the sheets, the colors, the light, the ambient nature of my mind felt different, somehow. Maybe you can chalk that last one up to the barely suppressed freakout but I swear, it's implacably different. The world, turned strange.

Once I couldn't take it anymore I said fuck this and reached for my phone, hitting me with the triple indignity of arms too short for the nightstand, hands too small for the phone (that one really hurts) and my browser opened to this blog. I tried reading a bit through the archives but once it became clear that I'm probably gonna have to live this woman's life I stopped. That's too much. I'm a horrible actor, and I've always prided myself in, if nothing else, knowing who I am and staying true to it. I refuse to think about it.

I also refused thinking more about what I look like now until I had to go to the bathroom (how's that for making it real...). I won't tell you about that part, but I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and couldn't hold back my curiosity anymore. Staring back at me I saw the kind of girl I'd hurriedly walk past if I saw her on campus because she's handing out pamphlets for why I should join her particular bible study group out of the approximately fifty billion we have at UVA. She's about 5'5", I'd say, and since I'm not (I wasn't?) a particularly tall guy I only lost a few inches. Kind of thickly built but not what I'd call chubby. About my age, maybe a little older?

I stared involuntarily into unfamiliar eyes for I don't even know how long until something snapped and I ran back to the bed and just sobbed. I felt a heat behind my eyes that hadn't been there since I was a kid... I'm not like this! Why do I have to be like this!? I can't be this woman...

So I didn't be this woman. For now. I haven't left the room in hours even though I'm fucking starving because there's still people around here and I don't want to face being seen as, whatever I am. If I go through that doorway, or look inside the suitcase I found in the closet, this all becomes real and, I'd like to avoid that for as long as I'm able. That's why I'm blogposting when I have way more important things to worry about right now. Is that why all you people do it?

Also, someone knocked on my door just now, right as I was finishing writing all this. Guess we'll see if that means anything... later.

Arthur/Penny: Emergency Post - Has Anyone Seen My Daughter?

This especially goes out to anybody in Old Orchard right now!  I haven't seen Millie all day, and while that's not entirely unusual - she's pretty free-range, and she'd stayed over with a friend last night because they had tennis practice in the morning - but she's usually a lot better about texting me where she's at and if plans changed.  Still, she's 13, and can get forgetful or let her phone die, so we weren't really worried until the afternoon, and even then, we just figured it was normal tween girl stuff and didn't start calling folks until dinner time.

Which is when we found out she actually popped in late to grab her tennis racket,  Normally, she'd call out, even if we hadn't been kind of at odds all week because Ray and I were asking her to choose between tennis and cross-country skiing (there has been a lot of talk about how this wasn't fair because Grandma and Grandpa Lincoln didn't make "me" choose between lacrosse and swimming when I was her age).  Last night, though, it is entirely possible that she came in while one of us was saying that raising a girl like Millie would be difficult even if she was a hundred percent mine, but that's the Trading Post Inn for you.

A lot of kids might have burst into the living room at that, wanting to know what the hell we were saying, but as much as she has inherited Nell's athleticism from me (or at least, the DNA I inherited from her), she's also got a lot of the traits that make Ray a pretty decent lawyer, and that includes not giving people who may have lied to her the chance to lie to her again.  She once confronted us with a voice recorder that I use for interviews that she'd left out to capture us constructing presents from "Santa".

So, it's possible that we've fucked up really badly here.  It's also possible that this is just something that happens when your kids start getting independent, but better safe than sorry!

-Penny

Isaac: Low Beam

Am I insane? Be honest with me.

I ask myself that question a lot these days, but right now it's because I chose to travel hundreds of miles to spend two weeks I won't get back at the cheapest bed and breakfast in Old Orchard Beach, by myself. (And the "breakfast" part is being generous.) Granted, I wasn't supposed to be alone; the plan was to make the arduous trek up here with my best friend. My girl best friend, who told me to get a room with one bed. You do the math. Of course that doesn't give me a pass for getting a nonrefundable reservation for a room with someone prone to depressive episodes when she's especially stressed, even if New England and the beach were her idea to begin with.

And you know, I get it. Alice has a lot going on in her life, with swordfighting tournaments (yeah, really), parties with Viking LARPers (not my crowd), invoking whatever dark magic rituals make her so unflappably cool half the time (don't ask me) and dealing with major lifelong mental health issues. And, you know, school and work on top of all that. Her life changes so much, she gets caught up in it, and one day after one of those tournaments I run into her and she's just dead inside. Going to New England would be too much for her, and ultimately I can't blame her. Like I said, she's got a lot going on.

But I don't. The most interesting thing I've done since finals ended is get a new fern for my room. That's how I treat myself, you know. I like to think of myself as a gardener, but I hate working outdoors so I've got a bunch of plants competing for sunlight around the one window in my tiny single dorm room. Some people's majors turn into their hobbies, but that's hard to do when you're an accounting major. So the thought of giving up the one actual plan I'd made for this summer didn't sit right with me. Which is why in a fit of impulsive contrarianism I embarked on twelve hours of solo driving up from Charlottesville, VA, fueled only by spite, to the world's only bed and breakfast with its own blog.

I realize I've kind of been trashing the good name of the Trading Post Inn but, to give it some credit, I've spent a lot of time in here since I got into town. Sure, I've walked around town, paced around the beach for a while and checked out the pier, and I've done all that at least a couple times a day for over a week now. But there's really not much to this place, and I hate sticking around in one spot for too long when I'm by myself in public. Going around on my own, surrounded by all these couples, friends, families out having fun doing things together and genuinely living their lives... Especially the ones my age. It just makes me feel like I'm a fraud, like at any moment somebody's going to turn around and say, ha, look at that creep! What's he doing here? And then I get mad at myself, not only for weirding out entirely hypothetical people, but also for being that paranoid in the first place. I hate sounding to myself like some kind of incel, and it all makes for a vicious cycle of negative thoughts. And I signed up for two weeks of this!

All this means I've spent a lot of time lying around in bed, just a different bed from usual, one from which I can't easily keep an eye on my plants. Or hanging around the Inn, where I can take comfort in the fact that I'm far from the weirdest person here-- I saw a kid who couldn't be older than ten yelling at someone over the phone about a mortgage. I mean, damn, did her parents give her a script or something? It feels like half the BnB is always whispering something to each other whenever I happen to walk by. Which I'm fine with, I don't need to involve myself in random people's problems.

Anyway, that's why I'm bored enough to rant at a blog just barely younger than me which somebody wrote down the link to in the lobby. I wasn't going to overshare this much, but I saw a post on the sidebar with a title about someone wondering if she's supposed to be horny. And if that's the standard I'm working with, I'm not about to stick out very much. (No clue why so many of you keep posting months or even years after your stay, but even I'm not desperate enough to read any more of this thing!)

So, I'll be around the Trading Post Inn for a good while longer. On the off-chance someone who's actually here right now reads this far, and they're similarly bored, you know where to find me.

And maybe you can tell me whether I'm insane for coming here!

Rusty/Monica: Is it time to find a new job again?

Things aren't exactly going poorly at the language school or anything, but the three of us got a new lease to sign a couple weeks ago that has the rent going up, and I don't know that I've got that kind of raise coming.  We signed it, and Dad's taken on a few more shifts where she can, but she's also been applying to a lot of jobs that match Emilia's degree, saying that it's not just about making it to summer any more - we've got to be looking at careers.

I'm kind of not sure what kind of career you shoot for with a Political Science degree, though.  I've looked at a lot of the textbooks I inherited from the original Monica, and I'm not really feeling a lot of interest.  I'm not sure she did, either - there's a lot less yellow highlighter in them than in Emilia's and Katey's.  Dad says that's not unusual, that working on the other side of this process, as a manager, it kind of didn't matter what you actually studied, that employers just wanted to make sure you were capable of handling challenges, and that for most graduates, specific majors really don't matter, unless you find the thing you really love through it.  Razzie kind of takes it further, saying that employers don't care what you major in, just so long as you've got enough student loan debt to be afraid of quitting.

The thing is, everyone says that being a salesgirl is a dead end, but I really loved selling Dragon Adrenaline!  I'm not saying I was a true believer in the product or anything, even if I did like some of the weird Chinese flavors, but it was really fun to travel to all the little stores, give out free samples, get to know the managers, all that stuff.  There's a lot more sitting in the office at the school.

Maybe I should go for one of those pharma-girl jobs.  It seems kind of intimidating - I'm not sure I could bluff my way through how effective drugs are with actual doctors - and it also seems like there would be a lot more travel, which means a car and not having Dad and Katey for help.  And...  Well, from what I gather, a lot of these girls are looking for ways to skim off the top or for husbands.

And I am really not looking for a husband!  Sure, I've been Monica almost a year, but it's still really weird watching Katey make out with Omar, although at least he's being kind of cool about me noticing that another girl was staring at his buddy Rodrigo during our third date and finding an excuse to slip into the ladies' room and say that it wasn't going to work out so if she wanted to make her move in the next few minutes, I wouldn't actually be upset.  Rodrigo is actually a pretty good guy, and maybe I wouldn't have been looking for an off-ramp if Katey and Dad hadn't both been going on about this being the sex date, but it all felt weird.  Like, the first date was sort of a fun hang-out with Katey and Omar, then the second was a double feature at the NewYork Asian Film Festival and then talking at a bar afterward, but I wasn't exactly excited when he kissed me at the end of the night, and then on the third date, he was counting down or something.  I enjoy hanging out with him but I feel like I'll enjoy hanging out with him a lot more if we run into each other a couple months from now and aren't thinking about whether this is going to get us laid or evaluating each other as potential lifetime partners.

Still, the money's really good in that business, and maybe that's the important thing to think of right now.

-Monica (or Rusty)

Marc/Dustin: Lies within lies

After you've been to the Inn, you lie a lot.

"Yes, I remember that," "Of course I feel comfortable in these clothes," "So-and-so's birthday is very important to me." You lie because you've got to, because the truth is impossible to tell, it's easier and it makes people feel better.

So there's lines drawn. There's you, and whoever else knows the truth about the inn, on one side, and the rest of the world on the other.

Normally, that's an easy situation to navigate. When I was a woman named Chantelle Carey, I could forget for long stretches that I had ever been a man named Marc Green. Oh sure, I laid up at night wishing I could go back to normal, or some semblance of it, but in my day-to-day, I was her, doing her/my job, going for drinks with her/my friends, spending time with her/my family. The only person who knew my secret was the last one who wanted to do anything about it. Before long most of what I said as her applied to me.

As Ryan, with John, we were in a little bubble, aware that what we were doing had consequences on the outside but as long as we were huddled together we were safe and secure. Whatever lies were told on the outside was none of my business. When we became Ed and Cayden, we eventually became aligned on what reality was, when, and to whom.

I may not have loved being a lawyer as Marc Green -- and somewhat tolerate it as Chantelle -- but I did have a mind for details. So it was never a problem to differentiate one level of reality from another.

Then this happened, and I had to re-draw the lines on the fly. Pretend I don't know John, never spent time in bed with him, didn't abscond with him for a year to try to ... whatever it was I was hoping to accomplish in 2024. Reality is different depending on whether I'm with him, Mary, or others.

Anyone would find the situation weird. As Dustin, I've been standing back and letting John and Mary get accustomed to their new "dynamic." John of course has to pretend like this is all new to him, and given he's in the body of a 110-lb woman, I guess you could say it is new to him. It's easy enough to pretend like his year as Cayden never happened and that he's just as much thrown off-guard by the Inn's magic as Mary is.

You can tell he has been before though. He has a lot more presence of mind than a lot of newbies might. Most people would panic and cry out in fear if they woke up suddenly in such a strange body. John is all business. "What should I wear, what should I do with my hair," matter-of-factness. It's not that different from how he was when he became Cayden, I suppose, (he was more upset at my part in it than any kind of inscrutable magic curse) but your first Inn experience being a young boy rather than a grown woman is a different thing.

With our transformation occurring at the very end of the "block," we didn't exactly have time to laze around and "get used to it." Being the veteran, I took the lead in suggesting the sensible course of action was to go to the town where these three lived and set up camp there. Mary protested that she would like to go back to New York and take care of some things. She has a rather large jewelry collection, and several other expensive items she is worried will get stolen/sold in her absence. She pled that there must be some way that they could stay in their own home. I underlined that she doesn't look like herself and the people who do will have the rights. John wasn't overly supportive, encouraging Mary's line of thinking even though he should know better.

"Here are my thoughts, and you can take them or leave them," I said at the end of a very long, heated discussion, "To me, you want to play nice with the people who will have your identities. If you want to get back into that life someday, which I assure you is very possible, you will need to stay on their good side and keep communication open." 

"People aren't that trustworthy in my experience," Mary scoffed, "I'll need leverage."

"Okay fine," I acquiesced, "Go to New York, squat in your condo, put all your belongings in a safety deposit box or a storage unit. Drain your accounts. Do whatever you feel is appropriate, I'm only telling you what has usually been done and usually worked. It's your life... so to speak."

"Ah, ah, ah," John interrupted in his small voice, "Let's talk."

He took his wife aside, just barely within earshot, and they began to converse in a low tone. Mary, as Cassie, towering over her husband, nodding along, tears building up in her eyes as he took her by the hands.

I heard some variant of "They're just things, Mare."

"They're not, that's my whole life. That's our life, don't you care?"

"Of course I care, but there's only so much we can do... we've still got each other..." 

I watched, arms folded across my chest. Was this genuine, or manipulation, or somehow both? What does John really feel about Mary, and the life they are leaving behind?

They returned, Mary wiping tears away from her cheeks. "Okay, I still want to go to New York and get some things, but after that we'll go along."

"Thank you," I said. She wrapped am arm around her little husband, who took the opportunity to rest his head on Mary's breast. Once again, I was given to think -- what exactly am I looking at here?

---

After all that, it was time to pack up and go, and outside of the crisis zone I saw John and Mary's relationship in action. The term "old married couple" certainly applies. Mary's quite finicky. "This suitcase isn't packed properly, would you start over?" To which John replied with a world-weary "Yes, dear," that sounded parodic coming out of Dakota's mouth as he lumbered -- as much as a skinny 5'3 girl can lumber -- back to redo it. As the muscle of the group, I was primarily responsible for loading the rental car, a CRV, and also for driving it since neither of them felt particularly up to the task in their new forms.

Next they bickered over the back seat. "Why do I have to sit in the back?" she asked. "Because Dustin's driving and I'm his girlfriend." "Oh, are you now?" "You know what I mean." "You don't need the leg room." "I can scooch up. Hey Marc, how do you work this thing?"

"How about you alternate," I arbitrated, a solution that was equally unsatisfactory for all. Then there were disagreements over navigation I did my best to manage. And don't even get me started on the radio selection.

We didn't stay in New York long, but I think that Mary really just needed to see it one last time to say goodbye to the life she was being taken from. Not everybody gets that, so I understand, but when it comes down to it, there's not much you can do. Okay, you've got some diamonds and some crystals and some gold to stash away. Family heirlooms. A life you spent a lot of time and money building is being taken from you, but you know, things happen... fires, floods, people get their lives upended all the time. Maybe I'm too "Zen" about it from being unmoored for all these years and never really valuing being Marc Green in the first place.

Then it was to our little college town, which I will call Springdale in lieu of any defining features. The others in our house -- yes, it's not just the three of us but I'll explain more about who's who later -- had a lot of questions about where we'd been and how long it had taken us to come back, and we all just kind of shook it off, I think the closest thing we gave to an answer was that we just felt like staying longer -- being in our twenties, that seemed like a reasonable kind of irresponsible. Dustin and Dakota are not really employed in any serious way, and Cassie had quit her job when it became clear that "she" would not be back after the original two week vacation. That means that the three of us are starting from scratch, which suits me fine, since all I have to do is get Dustin into an acceptable holding pattern because I'm sure an athletic 22-year-old is not keen on leaving his body and life behind, an I'm happy to serve.

More on all this to come

-Marc/Dustin

Marc/Dustin: There's bizarre, and then there's...

I was completely gobsmacked to find out that John had not only returned to the Inn, and brought his wife, but also had landed the room next to me, which had resulted in his and my lives being intertwined again.

I didn't really know what to say or do in that moment, so I excused myself, under the premise of giving them some space to adjust to their situation. When I returned to my room, there was already a message on my phone from John: "Thanks for keeping cool. We'll talk."

I laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I was annoyed at myself for implicitly endorsing John's lie, but what was I supposed to do, tell Mary "Oh, I already know your husband, we used to sleep together, and now it will be so much easier and more convenient for us to do so if we so desire. Also I kind of kidnapped him for the last year." I felt some frustration toward John, but a lot more toward myself. My own bad decisions are coming home to roost, with compound interest.

After a while, there was a knock at the door. John/Dakota entered, dressed in a pink tank top and white linen shorts -- girly but functional, with a lot of bare skin, his hair in a loose ponytail. Behind, looming over him, was the much-taller Mary/Cassandra, dressed in a black spaghetti strap top bodysuit with high-waisted high-cut shorts overtop, emphasizing her pinup girl physique.

"So, Mary thought," John said, still behaving like we were unacquainted, "We should get to know each other better. How does brunch sound?"

I wanted to say I wasn't really hungry, but I was in the body of a 22-year-old athlete -- I was starved.

Reluctantly, I went along. I couldn't even tell you what was said, because the entire time I was fixated on how messed up it all was. John as Dakota was aloof, unable to meet my eyeline. Mary was like a deer learning to walk. What I know of her, she's a buttoned-down sort of lady. She was definitely cognizant of the way people were looking at her, her eyes constantly searching the room.

"I feel like I'm wearing a Halloween costume I can't take off," she said at one point, inflected with both annoyance and awe at the situation. "Good gracious, what kind of person does this to their skin?" she said, displaying Cassandra's intricate tattoo sleeves. "Does she not know one day she's going to be an old woman?"

The day passed and John and I weren't getting any opportunities to talk -- frustrating but understandable, since I can't see how Mary would let her husband wander off in this body, or how John would explain wanting to. It was midnight when I got the notification.

"You up?"

"Yeah," I texted back, "We should talk in person if you can get away."

"Meet me out front," John wrote.

A few minutes later, there we were. I guess I shouldn't have felt so weird towering over him -- the height difference was less extreme than when he had been Cayden, but at the same time, seeing John as a pretty blonde was trippy. I sat on the front step with my eyes forward, unable to look at this girl -- I didn't want how attractive she was looking to color my perception that it was John inside, and he had a lot to answer for.

"So," he began to say in a low voice, "You've got to believe this was not planned."

"How could I possibly?" I snapped back. "You and me, here, together? With Mary? You must have hacked my emails."

"Hack your emails?" he scoffed, "I can't even get my Apple watch to work. It's purely coincidence."

He produced his phone and showed me an exchange between him and Mary from a few weeks earlier. The sender said "That place in Maine called back -- there's openings in July and September."

"I've got quarterly board meeting in September, so July it is. I know it's quick but I'm very excited."

"Me too."

John explained that Mary was on the board of a nonprofit that would be meeting in September, so they couldn't pick that vacancy.

"It's still too insane to think this is a coincidence," I grumbled. "I feel like somebody has been manipulating my whole life for years."

"Well if they have, it's not me," John sneered, "I wouldn't have known how to make this happen, and it's the last thing I would have wanted. I was aiming to get further away from you."

"So what did you want?"

He heaved a big sigh and said, "Same thing you want. A second chance. There was no saving Mary's and my relationship as it was. But she's a good person and doesn't deserve to be hurt. As far as she knows, we've just been estranged for a while and I was going to put a serious effort into reconciling. But I couldn't do it as... you know, me. I couldn't look at her and see a partner or a lover anymore. I was hoping that we could become two people who could love each other. Or on the flipside, two people who could just be friends. Let her down easy."

"You got your wish," I growled.

"Cut me some slack," he said, "I didn't do anything worse than what you did, and I had noble intentions. This inn is going to do its magic thing no matter what, you've said so yourself. Why not get the benefit?"

It always feels like I'm in a first-year Ethics class with John -- which is, paradoxically, why I wanted to sleep with him as Ryan.

"So if Mary had become Dustin, you would have tried to make it work?" I asked.

"I should've been so lucky," he snorted -- cutely, I might as well say. I could feel his eyes scan me, but I ignored it.

He put his hand on my knee, but I moved it off. I didn't want to signify to John that that door was in any way, open, no matter what we may look like.

"It may sound counterintuitive," John said, "But this was the only way Mary and I could have an honest relationship. With my having been to the Inn and her not, there was an imbalance of experience. Now at least, we can make an informed choice how we want to live the rest of your lives."

"Sounds like you've really thought it over," I grunted, "Like you've got yourself convinced."

"You of all people should know what an intoxicating experience it is to know that the inn exists and does what it does."

"That doesn't make it a good thing," I sighed.

There was no winning the argument, and no point to it -- what was done was done. By now we'd pretty much locked into the fabrication that we were strangers and he'd never been to the Inn. If I blow his cover now it's going to bring up a lot of questions I'd rather not answer either, and make me look like I had something to do with it. I'm an accessory after the fact.

Not much of a fresh start.

"Go be with your wife," I said, exasperated. "Do whatever you can to make this experience palatable for her. I guess I'll go delete my posts." I felt kind of sad that Marc Green was going to disappear from this blog forever, but as therapeutic as it is to spill your guts to strangers it's not always practical or fair to others.

"Nah, leave 'em up," John said. "Write whatever you want. She's not a reader, she only uses her phone for gardening videos."

I did offer "Dakota" a friendly side-hug as we parted ways. I'm satisfied -- for the time being -- that we're on the same page and fundamentally want the same things. I watched him go back in... and annoyingly, he turned back to see me watching, which caused some embarrassment and provoked in him a smirk. I waved him off. The last thing I want is to come any further between these two... let them sort out whatever it is their relationship is going to look like without me. I'll find... literally anything else to do.

-Marc/Dustin

Marc/Dustin: The catch is...

The change happened last night not long after I arrived and posted. I was about three episodes into Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders Season 2 (will those girls ever get paid what they deserve?) I felt a tingling, irritating sensation, which I've come to know very well, but... nothing was happening.

Of course that's not true. Something was happening. My skin tone was changing. My muscle tone was changing. My hair was changing. A million little features on your body gradually fade from one to another -- it's just that there was no dramatic increase in breast size or hair or... any of that stuff. Short-cropped dark hair becomes slightly longer blond. My clothes "shrank" ever so slightly. My legs began to bristle with body hair.

I stood up and noted, woozily, that I had definitely gained height. I was over 6', probably the tallest I've ever been, after being the 5'8 Ryan. It was also pretty clear I was going from a medium jockeys to a large, so I pushed my shorts down and saw... something that was pretty good, if I'm being honest.

To the bathroom I went to see the face of a chisel-jawed, blue-eyed, All-American boy. Not to be shallow, but this definitely felt like a win. I went from yoga twink to high school quarterback (actually,  college lacrosse midfielder, I've since found out.) I flexed for myself and noted the definition, wondering if I was still feeling echoes of Ryan's sexuality or if, you know, this was just a reasonably handsome guy that anyone would appreciate being.

In the closet were two suitcases. I had glanced at them, but given one was navy blue and the other sparkly-pink, I didn't really want to examine either until I found out who I was becoming. This was my introduction to Dustin Howe, a 22-year-old recent grad from (redacted) college, living in (redacted New England town). I grinned at my luck -- twenty-two years old, no particular occupation, living away from home. This was, I think, what everyone secretly hopes for when they go to the Inn. Those are things I would hope for before even considering gender or race.

The pink suitcase, his note told me, belonged to his girlfriend Dakota. In pictures and videos, they seemed like an almost too-perfect couple: she stood about a head and a half shorter than him, petite, sporty, fashionable, perky, equally blonde, energetic and not shy about showing off her tight young body in bikinis. They were like dolls designed to go together. They wound up as, in their words, an "old millennial couple," (a phrasing I took somewhat personally) but had been spared a gender swap. I reasoned the new Dakota was in an adjoining room, but as it was very late at night, I figured I would wait for them to come find me. 

It was around daybreak that I heard a knock at the door. I guess my body was expecting a summons, or just coursing with adrenaline, so I was sleeping lightly and sprang to my feet, almost forgetting to put on some shorts before my long stride took me to the knob. I opened the door expecting to find "Dakota," but instead saw someone... different. 

She was tall, nearly eye-to-eye with me, with jet black hair, pale skin, and tattoos that I could see covering her arm, neck and chest, at least from the portion visible under the silk robe she was wearing, which clung to her pin-up girl curves. Her earlobes were massively stretched out, as if they were supposed to have numerous piercings that, I would guess, simply disappeared somewhere between transformations.

She looked at me with her doelike brown eyes -- an expression that read to me as suppressed fear and confusion -- and said, "Pardon me, I'm looking for someone called... 'Dustin'?"

I nodded, "I... guess that would be me." I didn't want to seem like too much of a pro at this, but I also wanted to establish that we were all safe and sound.

"I, erm," she stammered, her vocal inflection that of a rather older woman, and shyly pressed a lock of hair behind her ear, "I was told there would be a suitcase in your room belonging to a Dakota Culbert."

"Oh, um, yeah, yeah," I stammered. "It's here. Sorry, who are you, then?" I was curious how this third person had been briefed on Dakota and Dustin.

She paused. "I... I don't know if I should tell you my real name, or..."

"Um, let's... let's not get into real names just yet," I said, trying to take things one at a time. "I was told to expect a Dakota, but I don't know anything about..."

"Well, apparently I'm Cassandra," she said, primly.

"Who's Cassandra?" I asked. I had read the note -- brief as it was -- numerous times already, and seen no mention of such a person.

"Well, as I've been informed, Cassandra, Dustin and Dakota live together. They're best friends, housemates, something like that. It's all in the letter I found with her luggage."

"My letter doesn't mention a Cassandra," I said. I guess Dustin had been a little neglectful and self-centered when writing his piece.

"Well, I guess we'd all better have a talk," 'Cassandra' said with a frustrated sigh and beckoned me over. "Would you like to..." she gestured at my bare chest and undershorts, which were not doing a good job of suppressing "Little Dustin", before correcting herself and blushing, "Sorry."

"It's okay," I felt myself blushing too. I asked her to wait a minute, closed the door, and threw on some loose-fitting sweats I had found, with a Patriots jersey on top.

We wheeled the pink suitcase over to the room next door. 'Cassandra' knocked and opened, calling in, "Are you decent? It's me."

"I'm good," croaked the girl on the bed, whom I saw was wrapped in blankets, presumably naked beneath. "Ugh, thank God you found it. At least I'll have something to wear."

"I would have lent you something," 'Cassandra' said.

"We don't need to add another layer of perversity to this, Mare," 'Dakota' sniped back, the way an old married couple banters. I surmised then that "Dakota" was the husband of "Cassandra," which I was already sensing would make things complicated. She unzipped the hard suitcase and began to comb through it, giving out a very middle-aged "oy-yoy-yoy" at her findings. "How about that," she said obscurely. Not exactly the raving panicked reaction I would expect.

"Well, I guess you'll have questions..." I said slowly, suddenly being thrown off of any potential speech I might have been prepared to make as I began to get a very odd feeling, "It's your first time here?"

"That's right," 'Cassandra' said. I noticed the tension in her posture -- only natural -- with her arms folded tightly under her bosom. "Do you... know about this?"

"A fair bit," I admitted, "I hope you don't mind. This is my... wow, fourth time around. It gets easier, without ever actually getting, you know, easy," I said through an awkward laugh. They were politely unamused.

"My name is, well," I said, trying to compose myself, "Originally it was Marc Green. I was born in 1987 so I guess I'm ah, 38 now, but obviously... er, not. I've been through a few different renditions of this. A bit older than I currently look, I'm just saying."

Dakota looked up from the suitcase. Without hesitation, s/he said, "Well, it's nice to meet you, Marc. I'm John *******, and this is my wife, Mary."

I froze, and I just glared at him/her.

John.

It was impossible, and I think my head absolutely refused to believe it was true -- maybe it was the magic of the inn or maybe it's because it's the most insane thing I could have imagined (short of what happened to poor Jade.) I thought for a second that the names were just a coincidence, because surely this wasn't...

John and freaking Mary.

And he was pretending like he had no clue who I really was, and he'd never been here before. And doing it so effortlessly, too, looking at me with those big crystal blue eyes like he had never seen me. I guess it was easy to pretend since this was a new face.

John. Was here. At the inn.

And he brought his wife.

-Marc