It was barely past midnight, but he couldn't wait any longer. He needed the calm and comfort from becoming himself. Dragging his bag from inside his closet, John slammed the door behind him and locked it. His legs were shaking, though whether from the exercise of swimming or from being tense and stressed all day he wasn't sure. He jogged his way to the library.

Inside, it was the same ritual. He put on the outfit he'd dreamed of in the pool, and as soon as the fabric touched his body, he felt the tension drain out of him. Applying makeup, he found he could smile into the mirror. A good sign. It was only when he was fully dressed and made up that he could put the day's events out of his mind. A deep breath, a glance in the mirror, and he was ready.

It was earlier than usual, which meant there were more people around. It wasn't a huge problem—it was still dark, but he saw a handful of students as he was crossing the main quad. Maybe it was why he decided to deviate from his usual route. Rather than heading towards the art building, and therefore closer to the main street, he turned off on a small path.

It was darker here, and he could smell the loamy scent of recently watered grass and plants. The path curved gently around, and his heart beat in time to the clicks of his heels on the path. If he concentrated very hard, he could believe his life had always been this way, would always be the same. His movements were natural, though the bag on his shoulder was heavier than might be expected for a woman dressed up. He wondered if next time he should store the bag somewhere. Maybe a locker at the library? Then, he wouldn't need to carry it around with him.

It happened at the apex of the curve. The police assumed that whoever it was had been waiting there in hiding on the off chance someone would walk by.

He felt a tug at his bag. Assuming it had become caught on something, he half-turned to free it. At the moment he swung back, there was a flash of movement and then...nothing. Black.

There was someone bending over him when the blackness receded. He took a choking breath, then another.

"It's okay," a voice said. "You're okay. Help is coming."

John tried to place the voice but couldn't. It wasn't one he knew. It was a man's voice. Maybe he should open his eyes and see. No, not yet. The blackness was comforting. He didn't want to leave it at the moment. He had the feeling that leaving the blackness would bring pain with it, so he kept his eyes shut and moaned gently.

"Don't worry," the voice said.

In the distance he could hear sirens. The screeching wails interrupted the calm of the night, and he was angry at being disturbed in this way. He shifted and felt the anticipated pain, so he lay still again.

He remembered someone tightening something around his neck and feeling choked, fighting it. He recalled a sense of floating, flying. There were definitely sirens again, but he felt so tired he didn't have the energy to complain.

There was no concept of how much time had passed, of whether it was day again or still night. But when he opened his eyes, he was blinded by a bright white light.

"Back in the world of the living?" a voice asked.

It was a different voice this time. A woman. She sounded soft and calm and gentle. Turning his head slightly, he saw a nurse dressed in blue scrubs with a dark ponytail, the hair at her swept-back temples graying.

"Mmm-hmm," he said, not feeling quite able to form words.

"It's okay. There's been an accident, but you're going to be fine. A nasty knock on the head and you've been out of it for a while, but you're back now."

She came closer to the bed, and he could smell the citrus sting of hand disinfectant. He licked his lips and concentrated for a second. "What happened?"

"Looks like you were attacked, mugged maybe," the nurse said, looking down at him. "Campus police are all ready to talk with you when you're up to it. But I won't let them in until you're ready."

Police. No. No, no, no. All wrong. Whatever had happened, he wanted to forget it, not remember it. It didn't sound like a nice thing at all. Burying it would be better.

"Can you make them leave?" he asked, aware his voice was getting stronger now.

The nurse shrugged. "I can't, honey. It's not my decision. They've got to speak to you, whether you choose to press charges or not."

John struggled, wanting to sit up but finding his body didn't obey him.

"Here," said the nurse.

She pressed a button, and his bed rose at an angle so he was no longer flat on his back.

He saw a plastic tumbler of water next to the bedside and reached for it, sipping the room-temperature liquid through a straw as he tried to piece together what happened. He was in a hospital; that much was obvious. The nurse said he'd been attacked. He wondered why. He'd been walking. At night. He remembered now.

"I'm afraid I have to ask you something, and I don't want you to get offended, but it's for the paperwork," the nurse said.

He nodded.

"Biologically, you're male. I need to know, do you identify as male or female?"

What a strange question to ask, he thought. Did people get a choice in these matters? Given his own choice, he'd certainly go with female—he had a definite feeling about it. He didn't know if he could be allowed to choose a word that didn't match his definition. He frowned. The nurse coughed.

"Well, would you prefer that I called you 'sir' or 'ma'am'?" she asked with a small smile.

Ma'am was his first thought, but it didn't seem right. He wondered again why she was asking. She cleared her throat.

"It's just that, well, you are dressed in feminine clothing," she offered as an explanation.

Shit. Shit. Shit. He'd forgotten. That's what he had been doing out at night. It was why he'd been walking. Shit. He looked down and saw the blue dress, torn and dirty but still there. He had no explanation for it, no story to appear normal. There was nothing he could say to hide the obvious. He panicked, the weight in his chest welling up, his breathing getting hard and fast.

"Whoa," the nurse said, picking up his wrist. "Calm down, there. Everything's okay."

"I'm 'sir,'" he muttered through clenched teeth.

He saw the look in her eyes. Compassion, understanding maybe.

"Okay, I think I get it. There's no reason for anyone to know your secret. We're certainly not allowed to say anything. The police will need to know, but that should be pretty much it. I need you to calm yourself, though, so take deep, slow breaths."

He did as he was told. Okay. Maybe this could work. He only to get through this police thing, tell them he didn't want to press charges and get the hell home before anyone saw him.

Wait.

"Is my bag here?" he asked slowly.

The nurse shook her head.

John closed his eyes. Very, very carefully, he put all of his worries into a box in his head. He was good at compartmentalizing. He was logical. He needed to do this step by step and worry about the problems as they arose. If he tried to think about everything all together, he'd panic again, and that was going to end up with him locked in a psych ward somewhere.

"All right, please send the police in. I'm ready," he said. He kept his voice steady.

Two officers came into the room, one older than the other. They questioned him carefully, though the older one put definite emphasis on the word "sir" when he spoke. John led them through the attack, what had happened before, but could shed no light on anything else.

"Did you have any sense how this attack was provoked?" the younger man asked.

"In what way?" He knew what the man was getting at.

The officer had the grace to blush. "I mean, er, did you have any sense you were being targeted because of how you were dressed?"

John shook his head.

"I've a tendency to agree," the older officer said. "There was little physical violence, and I'd expect to see it in a prejudicial attack. There have been a few muggings on campus, and I think you fell victim to the same guy. A case of mistaken identity." He chortled.

"Mistaken identity?" John asked, confused.

"The perp targets women late at night, female students coming home from studying or parties."

His head hurt. He was on the verge of destroying any vestige of normality he had ever had. He was very likely to be found out. But even with everything now hanging over his head, John couldn't help but feel a small spark of joy. Whoever did this had thought John was a woman. He shook his head to get rid of the thought.

"Well, if you're not wanting to press charges, there's not much we can do," the younger man said. "We might contact you if we come up with the suspect to see if you've changed your mind and will give evidence. Otherwise, I think we're done here. We will be filing a report, you understand?"

The officer wasn't giving him an option. John nodded. The thought of what would be written in their report made him feel sick, but there was no reason for anyone he knew to see it, no reason anyone should attach the report to his face. He thanked the men. He supposed they'd been relatively understanding. At least he'd been in Chapel Hill—he hated to think what the small-town Sandton police would have done or said if they'd seen him in this state.

When they left, the nurse came back in, followed by an Asian doctor. The doctor gave him a cursory examination, saying little. She was obviously busy, though efficient. She enquired after his pain levels, his headache, his vision, and nodded slightly when he answered her questions. Then, she was gone.

"Relax," the nurse said before leaving. "We'll probably keep you here for a little while to keep an eye on you. So try and keep calm and stay where you are. I'll be back in a while to check on you, okay?"

Her voice was so warm, so gentle that he nodded, closing his eyes.

Left alone, he tried to untangle his problems. He had no normal clothes. He wondered if the hospital would give him scrubs, but he decided they probably wouldn't. How could he get home without being seen? His best shot would be at night, though he had a feeling by the time he was let go, it would be broad daylight. Think. Okay. If it were daytime, he'd need to secret himself somewhere until it was dark again. It was the only way. He was trying to think of a place close to the health center where he might hide when the nurse returned.

"Well, the good news is we're going to let you go," she said. "You've had a bit of a bang, but the doctor thinks you should be fine."

John bit his lip. "Good news implies bad news, too," he said.

The nurse sighed. "We're going to need to call someone to come and get you; we can't let you leave alone. There'll need to be someone to keep an eye on things, just in case."

She looked over her shoulder, then came closer to the bed.

"Is there anyone I can call? I'm assuming not your parents?"

He shook his head.

Again she checked behind her, as though making sure they were really alone.

"Look, I see your pain," she said, and he knew she wasn't talking about his head. "I think you need to hear something, so I'm just going to go ahead and say it. You need some help, John. You're confused and embarrassed. What you choose to do isn't normal, per se, but it's not totally strange either. I've seen plenty stranger things in my time. Trust me."

She was smiling, and he knew she was trying to help.

"Maybe the people who love you might be the ones who can help you. Keeping this secret has to be hard—more than one person can take, I'm guessing. Maybe calling someone is the best thing to do."

"What if I say there's no one to call?" he asked dully.

"I'll be forced to call whoever is listed as your next of kin on your student health record. Most likely your parents."

He wanted to cry but couldn't. Everything inside him had turned to hard, heavy stone. This day had to come. Of course it did. Now he was here and there was no other choice, he found himself accepting it. His secret couldn't be his any longer. He had to share it, though he didn't want to. Someone had to know.

There was, of course, one person he could call. The only person he could call. Aureus should have been his very first thought.

"Can I make the call myself?" he asked.

The nurse nodded. "I'll need to dial the number, but you can speak for yourself, yes."

John gestured to the telephone by the bed, and the nurse picked up the handset. He recited the number from memory, and once she was satisfied the phone was ringing, the nurse handed it to him.

He took a deep breath, wetting his lips. When the call was answered, he had to close his eyes.

"Aur, I need your help," he said.

*****