Chapter 4: The Broadcast
The ringtone was a shrill, pulsing electronic beat that seemed to vibrate up through the floor. Justin fumbled the phone out of the tiny pocket, his heart—her heart—hammering against his ribs. The screen flashed ANDREA. He swiped to answer, the phone slick in his palm.
“Hello?” His voice came out a breathy imitation of Brittany’s, tight with panic.
“Justin?” Andrea’s voice was a frayed wire, crackling with static and something worse: pure, undiluted terror. “Oh my god, you answered. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I’m… I’m in her apartment. I’m dressed. I’m fine.” The words felt ridiculous. Nothing was fine.
“Listen to me. You need to get over here. Right now.” Her words tumbled out, tripping over each other. “It’s on the news. It’s not just you. It’s happening everywhere.”
A cold spike drove down his spine. “What is?”
“The swap. The body thing.” She took a shaky breath, and he could hear the television blaring in the background of his own living room, a news anchor’s urgent, polished baritone. “They’re calling it The Echo. It happened at exactly 8:43 PM last night. Nationwide. Global, maybe. If you were… if you were in the middle of…” she faltered, then forced the words out, “if you were orgasming, and you were fantasizing about someone specific, the connection… it just flipped. It swapped you.”
The floor beneath his feet didn’t feel solid anymore. It was sand, shifting, pulling him under. The grainy photos on Brittany’s laptop. The written fantasies. The Velvet Underground on the record player, that slow, grinding rhythm. The musk on the sheets. The timing. It all locked into place with a sickening, final click.
In the background, behind Andrea, he heard it. A raw, guttural sobbing. A man’s voice, broken and hysterical. His voice.
“Is that… her?” Justin asked, the question tasting like ash.
“She’s here. She’s in your… in your body. She’s completely losing it, Justin. She won’t stop screaming. She keeps looking at her hands—your hands—and screaming.” Andrea’s control was slipping. “The news is saying… they’re saying it’s dangerous out there. For people who are swapped. There’s confusion. Panic. A woman in a man’s body got attacked two blocks from here—people thought he was a thief. You can’t walk. You need to drive.”
“Her car,” Justin mumbled, looking toward the key rack by the door, a single silver fob hanging on a hook.
“Yes. Take her car. Get here. Please.” Andrea’s voice dropped to a desperate whisper. “And Justin? Be careful. However it feels… you’re in her body now. You’re a woman alone at night. Just… be safe.”
The call ended. The silence that followed was heavier, loaded with the echoing dread of a collapsing world. Everywhere. The word echoed. This wasn't his private hell. It was a shared one.
He moved on autopilot. The key fob felt alien in his hand. He grabbed a thin black zip-up sweatshirt from a hook, pulling it on over the clinging tank top, a feeble attempt to hide the shape of her. It didn’t help.
The hallway was empty, sterile. The elevator dinged too loudly. Every step in the sneakers he’d found by the door was a reminder of the shorter stride, the different center of gravity.
The underground garage was a cavern of concrete and shadows, cold and smelling of oil and stale air. He pressed the fob. Across the way, a pair of headlights flashed on a small, sporty silver coupe. Of course. He walked over, the sound of his footsteps too sharp. Getting in was a contortion. The seat was pulled far forward, the steering wheel too close. He fumbled with the lever, yanking the seat back until he could fit his—her—legs. The interior smelled of her perfume and vanilla air freshener.
He’d been driving for twenty years. This should have been simple. But the dimensions were all wrong. The mirrors showed him a woman’s tense face, framed by hair he could feel brushing his jawline. He adjusted the rearview and flinched at his own reflection.
The engine purred to life. Too quiet. He backed out, his movements jerky.
The streets were different at night. The streetlights painted long, stretching shadows that seemed to move. He caught his new reflection in shop windows: a petite, anxious woman driving too slowly. He was hyper-aware of every other car, every person walking on the sidewalk. A group of guys loitering outside a closed bodega turned to watch the car pass. One of them whistled, sharp and cutting. A hot bolt of primal fear, new and terrifying, shot through him. He gripped the wheel tighter, his knuckles pale.
His own neighborhood, usually a map of comfortable familiarity, now felt like a film set. The news was right. He saw a man in a silk robe and slippers standing in the middle of a manicured lawn, staring at his own hands under a porch light. Further down, two police cars, lights spinning silent red and blue, were parked outside a house where shouting could be heard.
He pulled onto his own street, the cul-de-sac where he and Andrea had planted a maple tree three years ago. His house. Their house. The porch light was on, a single beacon of normalcy in the chaos. But through the big bay window of the living room, he could see the television glowing, and he could see himself.
Justin Zygurski—his own body—was pacing. Pacing with a frantic, unhinged energy he’d never possessed. His own hands were clutching at his own hair, his own face twisted in a mask of abject horror. He was sobbing, shoulders heaving, a raw, audible sound even through the glass and the distance.
Andrea stood nearby, arms wrapped tightly around herself, watching his body break down with an expression of devastation and helpless revulsion.
Justin killed the engine. He sat in the dark car, in a stranger’s body, in his own driveway, and watched his life crumble from the outside. The figure in the window—the man he had been—was now a stranger, inhabited by a terrified girl whose deepest, most secret obsession had somehow torn a hole in the world.
He had to go in. He had to face himself.
He opened the car door, the dome light blinding him for a second. He walked up the path he’d walked a thousand times, but every step felt like a trespass. He reached the front door, raised a hand that was too small, with nails painted a dark, chipped burgundy, and knocked on his own door.