An Identity Crisis in the Living Room

"No? What do you mean no?" Rebecca asked, her voice rising in frustration as she paced the living room. "You can't just decide to spend the rest of your life as an eighteen-year-old girl because you think it’s 'beautiful'!"

Walter—or rather, the youthful, lithe form of Alison—let out a boisterous, masculine laugh that sounded utterly jarring coming from such a delicate frame. He patted his new hips with a smirk, leaning back in a way that was far too casual for a teenage girl. "Why not? It’s efficient! And besides," he added, casting a cheeky glance at himself, "it's a much more interesting look than those old cargo shorts, don't you think?"

Before Rebecca could launch into a lecture about social norms and the sheer anatomical confusion of their situation, a heavy, rhythmic knocking sounded at the front door.

The room went silent for a split second. Sandra’s eyes widened as she looked toward the hallway. Her eyes darted from the door to her father—who was currently occupying her best friend's body—and back again. She looked like she wanted to pull her hair out.

"Who the fuck could this be?" she hissed, her voice a mix of annoyance and pure terror. "If it’s anyone with working eyeballs, we are so incredibly screwed!"