Stretching out of a deep sleep, I blinked awake. The struggling light suggested early morning. Okay. My hands good I had two of them roamed my body assessing for injuries. Scars nothing fresh breasts that’s a change swollen right knee and a broken no make that a twisted right ankle. My eyelids fluttered close. Damn, this body was exhausted. I sank back onto my backpack.

I dreamt I was back in my kitchen making coffee. Flor was talking about her monstera and I was pretending to listen while I ground the beans. I always dream of coffee.

I shook this body awake drawing on its youth. Dead tired is better than dead as grandma used to say, I thought. Its feet—make that my new feet—hit the floor. I remembered the bum ankle and winced. My head spun as I settled into my new form.

I reached for the Kitchener Device. It’s cloaked as a plain leather bound book of blank pages. Brushing my slender fingers over the ivory pages, I felt the hum of the device’s energy. Calmness settled over me. Focus, Steve, focus.

Broken clay pots, a half open bag of fertilizer, rusted garden tools hanging neat as soldiers, the garden shed was clean and orderly. I spied an empty hook and found the missing trowel sharp hidden beneath the stack of paper bags under the garden bench this body used as a bed. Smart girl.

Leaping from body to body was hard enough with the Service on my heels without casting into a dumbass whose reflexes and instincts were slow enough to to get it killed fast. Quickly I packed up the foodstuff and supplies the girl had stored. I came across a funny flat pencil during my recon of the shed. A sketch book needs a sketch. As I ate an energy bar, I did an impulsive sketch of Flor on one of the pages. It was a fair almost good. Coordinates flashed across the page for the next portal, the next step closer to home. I felt the gears churn. Time to go.