The crowd at the State Fair shimmered in the hot afternoon sun, a chaotic blur of colors, voices, and motion. To most, it was a day of joy---the scent of fried dough, the hum of carousel music, the laughter of children. To Lance, it was an opportunity.

He lingered near the fortune-teller’s tent---the one with the symbol scratched on the side that only a few knew the meaning of. A symbol that meant possibility.

Inside, the air smelled of incense and burnt sugar. The old man behind the table didn’t look up when Lance dropped the envelope on the cloth. “You sure you want to do this?” the man asked in a rasp.

Lance’s jaw tightened. “Yes. I’m not going back.”

The fair was crowded---too many people to keep track of. Perfect. The spell, the transfer, whatever it was, needed proximity. And choice.

There were dozens of targets---young, fit women, men who looked strong, even a runner passing by in neon shorts. But his gaze landed instead on a middle-aged, plus-sized Mexican woman in a black top and floral leggings, a red tote bag hanging from her arm. She was licking powdered sugar from her fingers, humming to herself.

Maybe it was instinct, or maybe just convenience---she was standing closest when he triggered the device.

There was a sound like wind collapsing inward. A flash of vertigo. A moment of absolute nothing.

Then impact---his mind slammed into flesh that wasn’t his.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then he realized the truth---it worked. He was looking out from behind different eyes.

And across the midway, his former body---tall, wiry, male---was staring at him, wide-eyed, gasping. She---he---screamed.

Lance turned and ran.

The fairgrounds tilted under him. The pavement felt wrong beneath the short heels on his feet. He stumbled, arms flailing as his new center of gravity pulled him sideways. His chest bounced awkwardly, a strange and distracting weight that threw his balance off. His breath came ragged and fast, but not fast enough.