Whoosh.
My senses stop.
Silence.
Dry mouth.
Blindness.
The odorlessness of oxygen.
Then…
Pop.
All is quiet and dark. But it isn’t the silent black void from my dreams. The carnival sounds have been replaced by the white noise of a fan on low. My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I take in the contents of the room I’m suddenly in.
I am seated at a desk. It’s cluttered with textbooks and graph paper. There’s a laptop and an unmarked orange prescription bottle. Just beyond the desk hangs a poster of Albert Einstein sticking out his tongue, and there’s a standing lamp that doubles as a clothes horse, covered in button-down shirts and woolly sweaters. I turn my head to continue my survey of the room, but it’s an effort, and to my surprise, after I look over my right shoulder, I have to take a break. But while my muscles are slow to respond, my eyes have free rein, and they dart around their field of vision, taking anything and everything in at warp speed. There’s a bed just beside me, a closet next to that. Books are piled high on the floor. A half moon shines through the window.
I push the chair backward to stand, but it’s hard to control my legs. So I turn my face back to center instead and look down at the desk. That’s when I see my hands.
My hands, but not mine.
I stare, transfixed, at the impossibility of what’s before me.
My hands are literally not mine.
In my lap are two chunky palms with meaty fingers and fat knuckles. There’s a writer’s bump on the right ring finger, which wouldn’t be the weirdest thing, except I’m left-handed. And then there’s the dizzying fact that they’re pasty white.
My hands, but not mine.
I want to hide them, shove them under my legs, and count to ten so that when I pull them back, hey presto, it’ll be me again. But I don’t, because it’s also really…interesting. I focus my energy on the right pointer finger and wiggle it up and down. I can feel the tension against the palm—my palm?—as the ball of the digit lifts and lowers in its socket. I tilt my head forward to get a better look. But as my face closes in on the darkened computer screen, I freeze. My eyes widen as I catch sight of the impossible reflection that greets me.
Screw the hands. The face I’m staring at isn’t mine.
Though all my senses are intact and my very own insane thoughts are furious and frantic in my head, I most certainly am not the person looking back from the computer screen. I lift one of the hands to the face I’m wearing. I feel its touch against my own skin, though neither are mine.
They belong to Grady.
Slowly, laboriously, I explore the rest of my host’s visage. I am simultaneously a sculptor and his clay as I poke, squeeze, and mold this second skin. I trace the rim of Grady’s glasses and marvel at the shift between sharp lines and blurred as I raise the lenses up and down. I pinch the skin above his cheekbone as hard as I can and can’t believe how much it hurts. Running my tongue under his lips, I taste the furriness of unbrushed teeth. I open his mouth wide and close it again. I blink and blink and blink, but every time, it’s Grady in my reflection.
This is the weirdest dream I’ve ever had. I giggle suddenly at the absurdity of it and hear an unfamiliar guffaw instead. I watch as my shock registers on his face. I am fascinated and frightened, anxious and awestruck. I lift my hand to his short, greasy hair and watch as it slips through my fingers with a speed and smoothness I am unaccustomed to with my own thick locks.
And then there’s the buzz. Every movement I make in his body takes effort and tingles. His skin hums, his muscles crackle. It’s like static electricity emanates from the surface of his every pore. It reminds me of being a kid and rubbing a balloon on my head until my hair stood on end and my scalp fizzed. And yet, I no longer feel like I’m in a dream. This feels real-real, like I’m really inside Grady’s room and actually inside Grady.
The thought sends a creeped-out shiver raging through me. A shiver that soon becomes a convulsion. I shake all over as Grady seizes. I want out, and it seems as though my host wants to get rid of me too. But the more I want to untether myself, the more claustrophobic I feel. It’s like my whole self is caught in a Chinese finger trap, and the harder I pull against it, the tighter it gets.
My pulse—Grady’s pulse—is racing. Completely out of my control now, his chest and arms are flailing, and his legs, though seated, are definitely not steady. I feel his knees buckle and his chest lurch as his body pitches forward. I see his computer keyboard and the edge of the desk just before I hit them straight on with the top of his forehead.
Howl.
Shriek.
Retch.
I shoot backward, like I’ve been trapped in a Jell-O mold and have suddenly broken free. I land hard on my butt. My hands touch down on soft grass, and the lights from the carousel swim into focus. The carnival music starts up slowly, then resumes normal speed, like switching an old-school 7-inch vinyl album from 33 rpm to 45. I double over and collapse, sucking in air through my nose and pushing it out of my mouth, trying to regain control of my senses.
I feel a hand on my back, and I spin around to see Wes leaning over me. He pulls away, as if my movement has given him an electric shock. I push back to my knees. I’m on a grassy bank just beyond the perimeter of the carnival. Grady is nearby, lying on his back, blinking at the starless sky above.
I turn to Wes for answers, but before I can speak, I see them.
Three Burners headed right for us.