Patrick knew the feeling by now.

It always began with a pressure behind his eyes-like the air in his room had thickened-and a faint humming in the walls. He had learned not to panic. Panic didn’t stop it. Nothing did.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed when it started again.

The dark walnut dresser shimmered first, its polished surface paling as if someone were painting it from the inside out. The navy curtains bled into a soft lilac. His framed landscape prints blurred and reformed into watercolor florals. The air smelled faintly of powder and something sweet.

“No, no, no…” Patrick whispered, pressing his palms to his temples.

His flannel shirt tightened across his shoulders before loosening strangely. The fabric thinned, softened, shrinking down his arms. Buttons vanished. The weight of denim at his legs faded, replaced by something lighter that brushed his knees.

He gasped as a tingling sensation rippled across his scalp.

His hair.

It was growing.

He felt it spill down the back of his neck, sliding past his collar, grazing his shoulders. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, as he always did. Watching directly made it worse somehow-made it feel more real.

He had been so many people already.

An old man with trembling hands and thick glasses. His daughter-formerly his sister-had helped him down the stairs and reminded him to take his medication. They had spoken to him gently, patiently, as if he had always been frail.

Then the church lady-he could still remember the stiff hats, the polite laughter, the way neighbors sought his advice about scripture. His brother had been his son that time. His mother had been gone for years.

Then the dance teacher. That one had been almost fun. He had known choreography he’d never studied. His father had come to recitals with bouquets. His cousins had called him “Miss Patrick” with affectionate teasing that didn’t feel teasing at all-just truth.

Every time, no one noticed the shift.

Only him.

The humming intensified.

He felt his posture change-his center of gravity pulling slightly higher. His hands seemed smaller against his head. His clothes tightened again, reshaping into something soft and fitted. The mattress beneath him shrank subtly. The bed frame creaked, reforming.

He sensed the room brightening even through his closed eyelids.

Pale pink.

Lilac accents.

The furniture… smaller. Rounder. Younger.

Juvenile.

His stomach dropped.

“Oh no,” he breathed.

He felt fabric gather at his waist-elastic. A sky blue applique dress that features delicate floral design.

The humming slowed.

Patrick waited.