Friday night found Amanda Evans perched on the edge of her bed, facing the large mirror on the opposite wall. Her dark blonde hair had been wrangled into a
passable braid; she had tried to teach herself simply by watching her mother do her own hair, but had not quite gotten the hang of it yet. Amanda had draped
herself in an overlarge college tee of her father’s, a makeshift nightgown. Her new, smaller frame was pronounced by the fact that the shirt hung down to her
knees. Mere days ago the shirt would have comfortably fit Peter. Not Peter, Amanda chastised herself, me. I am still Peter inside, aren’t I? However, she could
no longer be so sure of this. She could not lie to herself; she had made no attempts to undo the life-changing transformation and become Peter again. Referring
to Peter in the third person seemed completely natural.
