Officer Svenson pulled up to the modest single-story house on Maple Street, the address matching the call he’d just received. A concerned family had reported they hadn’t heard from Peter Paulson in several days. It was routine---check on the welfare of a resident. Nothing out of the ordinary, or so he thought.

He stepped up to the front door and rang the bell. A few moments later, the door swung open, revealing a man dressed quite unexpectedly in a red and white polka dot knee-length dress with flutter sleeves and a U-neckline. A matching bow adorned his hair, light blue tights covered his legs, and black Mary Janes completed the ensemble.

Officer Svenson blinked, steadying himself. “Are you Peter Paulson?” he asked, voice steady but curious.

The man nodded, “Yes.”

Before Svenson could explain the reason for his visit, something strange happened. The man’s face softened, features shifting gently, and his body seemed to fill out. In moments, the figure in the dress no longer resembled the man who had opened the door---it looked like a woman.

Svenson cleared his throat, maintaining his professionalism despite the unexpected transformation. “May I come in? I need to see some identification, please.”

The woman---Peter?---nodded, stepping aside to allow the officer in. Svenson made a mental note to report this unusual encounter carefully. Whatever was happening here, it warranted a closer look, but respect and caution would guide his next steps.

Peter stepped aside and gestured for Officer Svenson to enter. As the woman moved gracefully through the small living room toward the kitchen to retrieve a wallet, Svenson’s eyes widened in disbelief. With each step, the attire around her shifted---the red and white polka dot dress melted away, replaced by a crisp white button-down shirt and brown polyester slacks. The light blue pantyhose transformed into brown socks, and the black Mary Janes morphed into sturdy men's oxford shoes. The bow in her hair quietly vanished, leaving behind a neatly combed hairstyle more fitting for a middle-aged man.

The graceful woman was now a man, appearing to be in his fifties. He returned with a small leather wallet and pulled out a driver’s license, handing it over with steady hands.

Officer Svenson took the card and examined it closely. The photo on the license was of a young man, maybe 23 years old---clean-cut, bright-eyed, and looking nothing like the man now standing before him. Svenson’s gaze lifted from the card, and when their eyes met again, it was the mature man---the one dressed in the button-down shirt and slacks---who stood silently in front of him.