[ There's nothing to it, waking up wrong. Max has been doing that for years. Dust in places it shouldn't be. Things gone that should still be with him. Waking up cold when it's warm, or warm when it's cold. Not sleeping at all — or sleeping too much. Other than human behavior, the unpredictability of the Wasteland is the predictable part, and Max is so fined tuned to the disharmony between the body and the self that he doesn't blink much when it happens anywhere.

Anywhere except here, because this place is different. The wrongness Max is accustomed to are things that don't make any sense. The appetite build up over the past month gone in the mornings. His usually bum knee so springy and fit, he feels ten years younger. The changes don't last, but they're enough to get Max to examine himself when he wakes, expecting flipped switches.

It's late when he wakes. Hard to tell without working watches or clocks, but his head's groggy from heavy sleep. His head that feels clearer, his body that feels lighter. Not like what happened after the dream and the lights — different. Much different. It's not until Max attempts to throw covers off his body that he sees it: a slender hand in place of his own.

Quickly he rights himself, to come to a stunning realization as he tries to push himself upright with an elbow: he is missing his hand.

Something flushes through him, like being doused in freezing water, churning mightily as he looks down to examine the rest of himself.

Different body. Female. Decidedly not his. But definitely belonging to someone he knows.

Someone who's downstairs. No, someone who's upstairs, in his room. Because this room isn't his, either.

Ignoring the mirrors in the adjoining bathroom, Max rushes out to the collective living area, nearly tripping over his own feet and the noticeably different center of gravity. ]