Samuel had always lived like a king. His sprawling mansion on the hill was more than a home---it was a fortress of wealth, filled with glass chandeliers, marble staircases, and the silence of someone who believed he was far above the noise of the world outside.

That morning, he had just settled into his leather chair in the sunroom when the knock came at the door. A sharp, almost timid rapping. He frowned---no one called uninvited.

Opening the door, he was met by a young woman. She stood straight and small, her hands folded in front of her. Her checked long dress brushed her shoes, white tights covering her legs, white shoes spotless despite the gravel path.

“Good morning,” she said softly. “I’d like to share with you a message---”

Samuel had no patience for it. His hand tightened on the door. He was about to slam it in her face when something happened.

The world seemed to fold in on itself. The marble behind him blinked out. His vision spun. By the time the door shut with a heavy thud, he was no longer standing inside.

He was outside. And when he looked down---he wasn’t himself. He wasn’t Samuel anymore. He saw the checked fabric, the white tights, the delicate shoes. A sudden panic rose in his chest as he touched his face, felt the missionary’s features instead of his own.

“No---no, no, no…” He turned back to the mansion, pounding on the great wooden door. “Let me in! I live here!”

The door didn’t budge. Not to the push of his hand, not to the rattle of the brass handle. It was sealed.

His breath came short. He turned toward the path winding away from the mansion. In the distance, he could see other rooftops, the faint silhouettes of neighboring houses. In his hand was something he hadn’t noticed before: a small leather-bound booklet with a neat list of addresses. The next house circled in ink.

For a long moment, Samuel hesitated. This wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. Yet the wind tugged at his long dress, the hem brushing against his white tights. The silence of the hill pressed in on him.

There wasn’t anything else for him to do.

Swallowing his pride, Samuel began to walk down the path, each step taking him farther from the mansion he had called his own, and closer to the next home on the missionary’s list.

---

Samuel felt the shift before he even realized what was happening. One moment he was fumbling through words about faith, trying to remember the soft, careful tone the missionary had used. The next, the marble foyer dissolved from his view, and the body he was in changed again.

He blinked and steadied himself, suddenly wearing Patricia’s form---the black leggings tight against his legs, the expensive blouse draped over shoulders that weren’t his. The taste of lipstick lingered faintly on his mouth, the weight of her earrings tugging at his ears.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the missionary again---her checked dress, her white shoes, her startled expression. But it wasn’t really her. Patricia, trapped in that borrowed shell, was staring wide-eyed at him.

She banged on the mansion door, her voice breaking. “Open this door! What is happening? This isn’t me!”

Samuel didn’t move. He remembered his own frantic knocking only minutes before, and how the door had refused him. He knew it would do the same to her.