Owen got to the front door and stood gawking at the world beyond the house.

Soon, the silence was more than I could take. "Is something wrong?"

"Everything's fine." Owen stepped onto the wooden boards of the porch and froze. "It's sort of overwhelming."

"You mean the whole sharing a body thing?"

"No," he said, his voice wistful. "Well, yeah, but it's not only that. It's touching things and being outside."

"You did touch stuff. I saw you move things like anyone else. You sat in chairs and dug through your desk."

"Moving things and being able to feel them aren't the same. It was like... energy passing from me to whatever I was moving. I held this knife, but I couldn't feel the indentations left by my dad's fingers from the hours spent practicing and using it."

Owen ran my thumb over the handle before striding into the tall grass. Stopping, he picked up a few pine needles and brought them to my nose. With a loud sniff, he closed my eyes, and tilted my face to the sun. "I missed this. The warmth on my skin, the smells of summer. This is the first time I've been outside since the day my spirit was pulled here."

"Then how did this furniture get out here?"

Owen squeezed the back of my neck and focused on the ground. "I was angry. We planned this, and I wanted to be the one to stay if we didn't finish them, but I was still pissed." He scuffed the red dirt with my boot. "It took me a while to figure out how to lift things. When I did, I threw some stuff. I couldn't wreck our house, but throwing furniture and watching it bust was satisfying. When the door kept the couch from fitting, I took it downstairs. I spent too much time making that thing, to just let it ruin out there."

He continued to dig the toe of my boot into the ground, apparently embarrassed by his behavior, and I tried to process everything he'd said. "You made the door?"

"Actually, I bought it, but I did the carvings. Mom liked that kind of stuff, so I did it for her."

"Wow. That's pretty cool."

He didn't respond, but he lifted our gaze, and I looked at the furniture and how far some of it landed from the house. "You pitched a freaking refrigerator across the yard?" I knew I sounded too impressed, but I couldn't help it.

"I told you it was more of an energy transfer. Anger holds a lot of power. I probably couldn't have thrown the fridge that far before."

"Probably couldn't? Nobody could throw one, let alone that distance."

"I never tried, but like you said, I was a beast." Owen grinned and stepped toward the trees, but stopped short when he spotted my truck. "That's yours?"

"Yep."

"Bitchin," he whispered before pacing over to trace my fingertips across the hood on his way to the driver's side window. Cupping my hands on the glass he peeked inside. "They haven't changed."

"No, this is a 73'. The new ones are different. I just like the older body style, and having a truck I can work on myself without a bunch of computerized stuff."

"Trucks have computers in them?" My shoulders drooped, and I realized it disappointed him that even trucks had changed.

"Some things are computerized in newer vehicles, but this is probably pretty close to what you remember."

He leaned away and ran my knuckle over the concave trim line that spanned the length of the truck. "This bumped out on the 68' model." Pointing toward the bed, he said, "They moved the gas tank back too."

"Yeah, but the engine is the same, and I bet it drives the same."

He straightened up. "You think I could drive it after we're sure my reflexes are sharp?"

"Sure."

"Right on, man. Thanks."

"You're living inside me, so letting you drive my truck is probably no big deal."

He smiled. "That's true." Turning, he strode toward the woods until he was about ten feet from a gigantic tree.

He took the knives out of my pocket and unwrapped them; there were five. The blades were sharp on one side, but the tips were the part that could do some damage. Dropping the leather on the ground, he held them loosely.

"Have you ever thrown one of these?"

"Of course. I studied knife throwing in school last year after precalculus. It's required."

Ignoring my sarcasm, Owen said, "Alright, pay attention." With my right hand, he took a knife by the handle, resting my index finger on the dull side of the blade. "This is the spine; your finger slides here as you throw. Hold it tight enough to have control, but loose enough for a quick release."

He stared at the grip, giving me a chance to memorize it. Watching myself do things was the weirdest part of this, even stranger than hearing my voice without saying anything.

Pulling my arm back into position, he held it there, so I felt the starting point, and then he took a step. My arm flew forward, and the knife disappeared into the thick trunk with a thump.

I'd never seen anything like it. "That was awesome!"

"Not really." Owen sighed. "I was aiming for chest height and stuck around the damn knees. That wouldn't help us. You have to hit their heart. I haven't thrown that badly since I started training."

He bounced on my toes. I could feel Owen's frustration mounting as he swung my arms out and stretched. Strong emotions came through more easily than actual movements. It was like I was frustrated, but my own fascination bled through his exasperation.

Owen said, "If you can hit the heart, you don't have to fight. It's useful if there's more than one mimic. I need some practice, and then you'll try."

"Okay, but why? If you're handling the fighting and training, I won't need to."

"What if something happens while you're in control? Do you want to be defenseless? Besides, after you get good, you can use it to impress your girl." Owen spun a knife in the air and caught it.

"She's not mine, and her name's Emily." The last time I was with her filled my mind. Her tan legs in those shorts. The way she'd peeked over my shoulder after kissing my back. Her soft body pressed against me.

"Whoa! Are you sure she's not yours? It kinda seems like she might be."

My thoughts screeched to a stop. "What did you see?"

"Enough to know you two like bathrooms. What's that about?"

"She wanted to bandage my scratches. You know, from when you threw a freaking cat at us?" My voice was angrier than I intended, but the thought of him seeing her the way I saw her set me off. Those looks were for me.

"I'd say I did you a favor. I never had anyone that cute put medicine on my scrapes. She's got a great ra—"

"Stop!" Was he seriously about to say rack? I waited until I could speak calmly. "Shut the hell up. Don't talk about her like that. Don't even think about her." Okay, not calm, less livid anyway.

Owen ducked my head. "Okay, sorry. It'll be hard if you're gonna be that focused, though; I see it too. Not to mention if you're copping a feel while I'm in here."

I groaned. "Nobody says copping a feel anymore."

"You know what I mean."

Regret blanketed us. He didn't mean to be an ass, so I dropped it. "Nothing will happen."

"Really? You understand this'll take a while, right?"

"In eight weeks, she leaves for school, and I start working with my dad tomorrow. I'll tell her I'm busy; I don't want her around any of this."

"She sounds important."

"She is."

"We could try to block each other."

"No offense, but let's not talk about her. Can we just practice, and you forget what you saw?"

"Sure, man, no problem." Owen straightened up and hurled the next knife.

***

For an hour, Owen practiced throwing. After warming up, his starting point became farther from the tree with each round, and his throws got speedier and more precise. It took him a few seconds to have all five weapons in the trunk, hitting a spot the size of a dessert plate.

It was impressive, but I was getting bored. It was five thunks in rapid succession; yank the blades from the bark, take a step away from where he started last time.

Five quick thunks, get the knives out of the tree, take a step back.

Five thunks, get the knives, step back.

Thunks, knives, step back.

When Owen was as far as he wanted to get, he'd start from the beginning, ten feet from the target.

Finally, the pattern broke when my phone beeped. Owen took the cell from my pocket and examined it. "What's this thing doing?"

"It's telling you I have a text."

"What's a text?"

Wow, he had a lot to learn. "It's a written message from someone. Check it."

He studied the phone, flipping it front to back. "Written on what?"

This was worse than when Nolan's grandma finally got rid of her flip phone. "Look at the screen. Press that circle on the bottom."

Owen did, and it lit up. "Huh, that's neat. Is this what computers look like now?" He rubbed the glass, making the images bounce around.

"Cut that out. No, this is a phone, but it can do most of what a computer can do. Nolan texted. Tap that rectangle. The other one. Dude, the green one. It'll bring the entire text up." I ignored his shock and read the message.

Nolan: Lauren's talking to me, but now we can't hang out because she has plans with Emily tonight. Ask Emily out, and maybe we can double again.

I huffed. "I'm not doing that. Text him back. Poke where it says message on the bottom."

When the keyboard popped up, Owen let out another gasp. "It's a tiny typewriter."

"Yep. Write, I can't. I'm busy today. Why don't you go hang out with them?" I waited for Owen to finish typing. "Now press the arrow."

"When will he get that response?"

"He's already got it. It only takes a second."

The phone rang, and Nolan's name came up. "Shit, he's calling, and it'll take too long to switch. Can you repeat what I say?"

"Why not let it ring?" Owen asked.

"Because I texted him five seconds ago. It'd be weird not to answer."

Owen kicked a pinecone across the yard. "Fine, how do I do it?"

"Tap the green circle, put it to your ear, and say hello."

"I know to say hello. That's not new," he grumbled. "Hello?"

"Dude, since when are you too busy for Emily?"

For the rest of the conversation, Owen repeated my words. "Why can't you tag along with them tonight?"

"She said it's a girl's night." Nolan huffed. "They're going to watch girly movies and have pillow fights or some shit."

"Pretty sure girls don't actually have pillow fights; besides, you like girly movies."

"Seriously, dude, they'll be gone in two months. You don't start work until tomorrow. Let's ask if they'll go to dinner."

I was out of excuses. Owen and I would have to practice ignoring each other. I told Owen to tell Nolan, "Fine, I'll call her. That doesn't mean she'll cancel her plans, though."

"She might, especially if we double. Then they're not canceling plans, just changing them."

"Fine, I'll text you later."

Owen hung up. "Do you want me to call her?"

"Hell no. Telling you what to say to him was weird enough." It surprised me that Nolan couldn't tell something was wrong. I didn't want to hear Owen pretending to be me talking to Emily. I'd rather not know if Owen could fool her, too. "Plus, I don't talk like that."

"Like what?"

"Whatever that weird shit was you were doing. This is Ellersville. There's no ocean, and I don't sound like a surfer."

Owen laughed. "You kinda look like one, though, Shaggy."

"Just cut it out before people assume I'm having a stroke."

Owen stretched. "I've done enough for now; let's switch. You can call Emily before you practice."

"Okay. How are we doing this? You should probably sit."

"That's a good idea, at least until we get better at it." Owen strolled to the porch and sat, leaning against the house. "Start trying to take over when you're ready."

"Got it."

Owen shut my eyes, and everything went dark for both of us. The only sounds were soft, steady breaths and the occasional rustling of leaves in the light breeze.

I said, "I'll open my eyes, then work on moving."

Owen stayed silent. Nothing happened. A few seconds later, I tried again, and again nothing happened. I let out a frustrated growl, making Owen chuckle. "You sound tense. That's not productive."

I was tense. I hadn't expected it to be so difficult to lift my own damn eyelids. What if I couldn't figure it out, and I was stuck in my own head forever, watching someone else live my life? "Shut up. I'm trying."

"You might be trying too hard. Calm down. This is your body; it should be easier for you to take control of it. Know deep inside that the next time you try, it'll work, and it will."

I'd have rolled my eyes if it was possible. "You're aware that sounds like some hippie bullshit, right?"

"Awesome. You should be great at it," he said and the grin was clear in my voice.

"Being annoying isn't helping." It did help, though. The jokes about my hair didn't bother me, and feeling his amusement was calming.

Owen was right; it was my body. This should be easy. So, I focused on clearing my mind. A couple of minutes later, my eyes opened. "I did it!"

Owen snickered in my thoughts. "Great, now try to control the rest of you."

I stood without a problem. "It's easy! Totally normal."

"Good, but we have to get faster at switching. Mimics won't wait while we find somewhere to sit and relax for a few minutes."

"Right, but can't you be happy for a second that this is working at all?"

"It's going well so far, but we don't have time to be complacent."

"Fine, buzzkill." I walked off the porch steps and stretched my arms as the scorching afternoon sun beat down on my shoulders. "Holy crap, I didn't realize how sore I was getting."

"I'm better now that we switched; nothing hurts in here. Throwing knives must use different muscles than you're used to."

I shook my arms out. "Apparently, geez."

"You should try for a while, so if you need to make that call, hurry."

"Yeah, dude. Quit bossing me."

"Seems like someone has to, or you'll stand here stretching all day."

I blew out a slow breath and took out my phone to call Emily.

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