"Oh, well," you think as you watch your old body run away laughing. "I ought to be more freaked out about Ember doing this, but somehow it feels ... normal."
Shaking your head, you brush your stringy, dark hair from your forehead, adjust your thick-lensed glasses, and look down. You're wearing a ratty old blue t-shirt emblazoned with a peace sign. You've got a pair of brown courdouroy pants on that seem a bit too long for your short legs. Your tiny feet are clad in scuffed, brown clogs.
Stepping out of the shed, you notice your next door neighbor, adorned in fur, entering her front door. For some reason, looking at her wearing those dead animal skins suddenly fills you with self-righteous rage.
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