The morning sun glinted off the rolling surf, the kind of golden shimmer that made everyone’s sunscreen glisten and every seagull look like it was auditioning for a postcard. Vicki Changstein squinted at the camera operator beside her and said, “Let’s get some B-roll of the joggers. Early risers, salt air, fitness, all that good stuff.”

That was when she saw him.

A man --- if one could still call him that --- sprinted across the beach wearing a bright red polka-dot bikini. His toned legs kicked up sand as he charged after a beach ball that had clearly done something to offend him. He gave it a sharp kick, sent it sailing several yards, and then bolted after it again, laughing gleefully like a six-year-old on a sugar rush.

“Uh,” said Vicki, lowering her sunglasses, “is he… playing soccer with himself?”

The camera operator shrugged. “At least he’s having fun?”

Vicki’s reporter instincts twitched. “No, no. That’s a story. Let’s go find out what his deal is.”

She jogged toward the polka-dotted spectacle, microphone in hand. The man saw her coming, trapped the beach ball with his knee, and gave her a cheerful wave. His long wavy hair --- chestnut brown with a suspiciously salon-quality bounce --- shimmered in the sunlight.

“Sir?” Vicki called out. “I’m Vicki Changstein with Channel 8 Beachfront News. Can I ask what exactly you’re doing?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Practicing my coordination. I was a linebacker last month.”

That was not the answer she expected. “Last month?”

“Yeah.” He kicked the ball gently toward the tide. “Back before the Role Swapper started showing up.”

Vicki blinked. “The what?”

“The Role Swapper. Or Trait Swapper. I never get its name right.” He pointed to the sky as though expecting to spot it hovering there. “It’s this... thing. Entity. Cosmic prankster, maybe. Keeps swapping my traits with other people’s. Height, hair, preferences, you name it.”

Vicki tilted her head. “And that’s how you ended up in a women’s swimsuit?”

“Exactly! I wasn’t always like this.” He grinned, adjusting one of the red straps as though trying to make it sound logical. “I mean, maybe I was. Memory’s fuzzy now. The Swapper messes with that, too. But I think I was originally six-foot-two, shaved head, into football, spicy wings, and discount jeans.”

Vicki motioned for the cameraman to roll. “Let’s get this on record. You’re saying this ‘Trait Swapper’ has changed you --- physically, mentally, emotionally?”

“Oh, everything,” said the man, nodding earnestly. “One trait at a time. The first few were easy. I noticed my socks matched without trying. Then my handwriting got all curly. Then I started humming show tunes in the shower. You know --- small stuff.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then came the big changes. I got shorter. Softer skin. My hair turned into this.” He flicked the wavy cascade over his shoulder proudly. “I went to a barber to fix it but then thought, nah, it kind of works. It’s aerodynamic.”

Vicki chuckled. “You’re taking this surprisingly well.”

“Well, it’s not like I can stop it,” he said. “One day I woke up with a craving for chamomile tea. The next, I was crying during insurance commercials. Now my best friends are all women in their seventies named things like Doris and Ethel. Great gals. Terrible at texting.”

Vicki laughed. “That’s... quite the shift.”

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it. I used to hang out with the guys at the sports bar. Now I host bridge night.”

He brushed a bit of sand from his shoulder. “I guess I’ve just learned to roll with it. You can’t fight cosmic weirdness. You just accessorize.”

As he spoke, a strange shimmer rippled in the air --- just a glint, like sunlight bending the wrong way. Vicki blinked.

“Did you see that?” she asked.

“See what?” he said.