One Afternoon On tiptoe putting away a box of cereal, she felt the first tingling between her shoulder blades. She checked her watch: 5 o'clock, and stepped to the bathroom, slipped off her dress, her shoes, stood with her back to the mirror. Twisting, she saw: an inch long, at the base of her neck, a gap. She walked naked to the kitchen, put the milk in the refrigerator, drank some water, then went to bed. Hours passed. Looking out the window, she watched a barn swallow zigzag across the lawn, saw the fuschias needed water. And all the while the gap along her spine grew longer, like a crack across a windshield. Next door, a baby was crying, and someone played a piano. Finally, near dawn, the fissure stretched from the top of her skull to the base of her spine. She wiggled her shoulders free, slipping her arms from the arms that clutched the pillow. And gently she wiggled her hips free, and gently each leg. Then, at least, she slipped her head from the old one and got out of bed. She felt cool. Her new hands were larger, veinless. And who knows, she thought, but someone may be watching. She closed the blinds, locked the door, and got back in bed, exhausted. And ravenous. Her shed skin, rigid, amber, translucent, stretched out on the sheet. She began to devour it. —Joanie MacKowski