Before dawn, the sky over the quiet suburb was still the color of wet ash-one of those depressing shades of gray that made even the birds want to hit the snooze button.

Thirty-year-old Jackson moved like a shadow through the back gate of 142 Maple Lane, the house he had been watching for three weeks with the patience of a man who had absolutely no moral compass but plenty of time. Mrs. Eleanor Helena, sixty-one, widowed, lived alone.

Perfect.

He slipped through the kitchen window he had thoughtfully loosened a few days earlier. The house smelled like lavender sachets, furniture polish, and the lingering dignity of someone who alphabetized her spice rack.

Upstairs, the widow slept deeply in her big four-poster bed, breathing the peaceful breathing of someone who had absolutely no idea a professional body thief was standing over her.

Jackson paused just long enough to admire his future.

Then he pressed the small device-purchased with literally every dollar he had-against her temple.

A soft blue light flared.

The swap was instantaneous.

And extremely rude.

---

When Jackson opened his new eyes, he immediately felt sixty-one years crash into him like a truck full of orthopedic pillows.

His hips were wider.

His chest was heavier.

His back ached in places he had never previously known existed.

He raised a hand and stared at it. Wrinkled. Delicate. Slightly trembling.

“Oh boy,” he muttered.

The nightgown stretched across Eleanor’s fuller figure, and the clothing he had been wearing had not survived the transition very well. His shirt had split like it had just received devastating news. The pants were in open rebellion.

Across the bed lay his former body.

Thirty years old. Tall. Fit. Peacefully unconscious.

And wearing Eleanor Helena’s silk nightgown.

The real Eleanor was now inside it.

Jackson-technically Eleanor now-stared for a moment, then shrugged.

“Well,” he said to no one, “this is awkward.”

Still, there was no time to waste.

He needed to leave before anyone started asking complicated questions like *Why does Mrs. Helena suddenly run like a linebacker?*

So he forced himself to walk like a woman.

Or at least what he thought a woman might walk like.

This resulted in a cautious shuffle that looked like someone trying to balance soup in their pockets.

After a few experimental steps he tried swinging his hips.

He immediately lost balance and grabbed the dresser.

“Okay,” he muttered, “less hip.”

Eventually he managed a passable elderly-lady stroll.

Good enough.

He removed the shredded remains of his clothing, showered quickly, and selected something from Eleanor’s wardrobe.

He chose a soft lilac scoop-neck blouse with short sleeves and a pair of zipperless elastic-waist stretchy jeans that flattered Eleanor’s padded hips. Not that Jackson would have phrased it that way, but the mirror definitely did.

He added red-berry lipstick.

Some blush.

Then he brushed Eleanor’s light-brown bob into neat bangs.

The mirror showed exactly what the world expected: a well-kept sixty-one-year-old widow who absolutely did not look like she had just stolen her own body.