Chad thought bringing Todd along would make the visit less awkward.

“Just say hi, we won’t be long,” Chad had said as they drove through the wrought-iron gates of the retirement community, a place that smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and roses. “Grandma Mildred likes meeting my friends.”

Todd had laughed, slouching in the passenger seat. “Your grandma won’t remember me five minutes after we leave.”

That, Chad knew, wasn’t quite true.

Mildred was waiting for them in the common room, sitting very straight in a high-backed chair, a thin silver chain glinting at her throat. The charm hanging from it was small and unremarkable-an oval of dark metal etched with symbols Todd couldn’t quite focus on-but Mildred’s fingers never stopped touching it, as if reassuring herself it was still there.

Her eyes sharpened when she saw Todd.

“So,” she said pleasantly, “this must be Todd.”

Todd opened his mouth to reply, and the room seemed to tilt.

Mildred stood with surprising speed and began to murmur words that sounded like they belonged to no language Todd knew. The charm grew warm, then hot, and the air thickened, like the moment before a summer storm breaks.

There was a wrenching sensation-like missing a step in the dark-and then Todd was falling forward, his balance wrong, his center of gravity unfamiliar. His hands were not his hands. They were thin, spotted, trembling.

He screamed, or tried to. What came out was a frail, cracked sound.

Across from him, in Todd’s body, Mildred smiled.

“There we are,” she said, testing Todd’s voice with a small cough. “Now then. We’ll be back tomorrow to put things right.”