"Ow—where's my other shoe?" "Stop whining. You weigh less than a sack of grain." Stone's voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. "Shut up, Stone. Help me find it." I tugged at the thorn bushes with hands that belonged to a nine-year-old. The skin tore under the nails. The body I lived in screamed. I swore out loud and the village girl's tongue answered with a high-pitched whine. "Don't pull. You're only poking the root deeper," Stone said. "Move left. There's a hollow. Move fast." "Move fast," I mouthed to the legs that had been spoken for at birth, the legs that had been promised to Reid Young. The legs obeyed, clumsy and terrified. A thorn snagged the hem of a skirt and the foot slid. Pain exploded across the shin in a hot sting. I crashed into a shallow ravine and the village girl sobbed. Her voice trembled under mine. I could feel the other soul — not mine, old like a tucked-away pebble — curling inward to hide. "Who put a thorn hedge here?" a voice called from above. "Madison! Stop throwing rocks!" Madison's voice, sharp and spoiled, bounced across the slope. Footsteps approached, then retreated. Relief didn't come. The edges of the world had no mercy. "Stop trying to be brave," Stone said. "If you pass out here, they bury both of you and call it a pity story." "Not happening," I said and forced