Shifted [z.m au]

XII. Promenade.

◾ prom·e·nade

noun:
ˌ/ präməˈnād /

a leisurely walk, or sometimes a ride or drive, typically one taken in a public place so as to meet or be seen by others.

-

I landed on both feet on the soft dirt. I knew immediately that it hadn't worked.

Zayn's photo was still gripped in my hand-Zayn's hand.

That was all I needed to see to know that my plan had failed. But I examined myself anyway, desperately hoping that somehow I had changed back to me.

But no. I was still wearing Zayn's grey sleeveshirt, sneakers, his jeans now dirt stained and torn. I grabbed my hair. Zayn's hair, short and finer-textured than mine.

I needed the real Zayn here with me in order to get my body back. But how could I find him? Where had he escaped to?

I yawned wearily. I suddenly realized how exhausted I felt. Every muscle in my body ached. My head throbbed. It took such an effort to hold my eyes open.

Yawning again, I lowered myself to the damp ground. I settled back against the wall and shut my eyes. The cold stones pressed against my back and head.

With a sigh I curled up in the dirt. And fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

I lifted my head, squinting against the morning sunlight. A scrawny, brown rabbit peered suspiciously at me across the dirt. It's nose twitched and its pointed ears arched straight up.

With a groan I pulled myself to a sitting position. The rabbit whipped around, silently vanishing into the tall grass.

It took me a few seconds to remember where I was. I brushed dirt and a wet leaf off my arm. My back ached from sleeping on the hard ground. My throat felt dry. I wanted to brush my teeth, brush the sour taste from my mouth.

As I stood up, a dozen thoughts jumbled into my head at once. Sleep had cleared my mind. But now the frightening questions rushed back in.

Mom and Dad must be frantic, I thought. They must be desperate to know where I am.

But then I remembered that I was Zayn, not Rena. Did Zayn go home to my house? If he did, my parents probably weren't worried at all. They would go off to work this morning, thinking their daughter Rena was safe and sound.

I brushed the hair back off my face. A large black beetle had crawled into my hair during the night. It dropped onto my hand. I tossed it to the ground.

I'm a disguisting mess, I realized. I need a shower. I need fresh clothes. I glanced at my watch-Zayn's watch. A little after seven.

My parents left for work promptly at seven-thirty. It would be easy to sneak into the house, get myself cleaned up, and change into clean clothes.

My Dad clothes would be a little big on Zayn's body, I thought.

I stretched, trying to force away the aches, trying to get my muscles working. Then I made my way through the woods to the street.

It was hazy. Hot morning. The air felt heavy and still. The morning dew stained my sneakers as I trudged through the grass and weeds.

I kept away from the street, keeping low as I walked though front yards and alleys. A rolled-up morning newspaper in a driveway made me stop.

I glanced up at the house. No one seemed to be stirring beside. I picked up the newspaper and began to unroll it.

Would Zayn's murders be on the front page? Would the story tell about how the police are on my trail?