text: Early the next morning, james drove them to Bismarck, a fairly sizable town in the middle of North Dakota. He bought them breakfast at a truck stop. He tried to pay them money for their night's work, but Scott refused. It did not seem right to take anything for burying a man's wife.
  
  "I was going to give you my car," James said. "I didn't think I would have much need for it after you took care of my Milly."
  
  Because I was going to have you bury me, too.
  
  James did not have to say it. They all knew the truth; James had given Jean permission to tell them.
  
  Scott borrowed some paper and a pen from the waitress. "Here's our address in New York, and this is the phone number we can be reached at. It's, uh, not working right now, but it should be up and running in a couple of weeks. If you ever need anything—anything—contact us and we'll be there for you. You can even come live with us if you want. You might like it."
  
  James examined the address, reading off the list of names that were not the ones Scott and the X-Men had given him, and then he said, "Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters? That sounds familiar to me, for some reason."
  
  "It's a good school," Jean said. "We teach there."
  
  James studied them. "I thought you were homeless."
  
  "It's complicated," Scott said. He thought James would press him for more, but after a moment's quiet contemplation, he smiled.
  
  "Fair enough," he said, and asked for the check.
  
  They walked him back to his truck. Dog poked his head out the passenger window and Scott scratched his neck.
  
  "I'm sorry I can't do more for you folks," James said. "Especially after all you did for me. I just... I just can't stay away from Milly for that long. Long enough to drive you home, anyway."
  
  "We understand," Jean said. 'You take care."
  
  James climbed into the truck. He looked tired. Dog leaned up against him.
  
  "Sure is going to be strange," he said softly, and Scott could only imagine he meant home, that empty little house that still bore his wife's touch. James started the engine, put the car in gear, and waved goodbye as he drove away. Scott watched him go, and could not muster a shadow of disappointment or frustration that another stone had been thrown in their path.
  
  "So now what?" Logan asked. "Walk?"
  
  "Let's look around," Scott said. "Maybe someone will give us a ride."
  
  "I see a bar across the street."
  
  "No."
  
  Logan grinned. "No gambling, I promise. It's the best place to scope a ride, though. Give me a little money, sit tight, and I'll see what I can dig up."
  
  "It won't be much, looking the way you do," Rogue said.
  
  "Why don't you come with me, sweetheart. You can charm the men with your aging assets."
  
  "Sweet talker."
  
  But she did go with him, and while Scott used a pay phone to call the Mansion, Jean and Kurt sat on a bench outside the truck-stop restaurant to watch for opportunity in whatever form it might take. Scott was not very optimistic.
  
  He was even less so when all he got was a busy signal.
  
  He scowled and slammed the receiver back into its cradle. It terrified him, the idea that five X-Men were being impersonated. Walking and talking, using their bodies, their powers. He was scared to check the news, but he bought a newspaper and brought it back to the bench.
  
  Much to his surprise, there was barely a mention of any mutant-related criminal activity or catastrophes. Just a side note about the conference in Geneva, as well as a small mention about the mutant-rights march planned for the day after in New York City. Scott knew all about it The X-Men were scheduled to attend—not as participants, but as security.
  
  "What is it?" Jean asked.
  
  "What's what?" he replied absently.
  
  "You look like you just had a bad thought." She reached and touched his forehead. "You're all wrinkled."
  
  He caught her hand and kissed her fingers. "That mutant-rights march is mentioned in here. Remember?"
  
  "How could I forget? The children are dying to attend."
  
  "We're supposed to be there," Scott said, looking at her and Kurt. "What if we are?"
  
  "Why is it, mein freund, that I do not think you are referring to present company?"
  
  "Because I'm not." Scott shook his had. "I don't know why I'm even thinking about it. Because really, it wouldn't make sense. Why would someone steal our bodies just for that event?"
  
  "You're right," Jean said. "It doesn't make sense. Maybe our counterparts aren't even planning to go."
  
  "Then what are they doing?" Kurt leaned forward, clasping his hands. "I have prayed a great deal about this, but so far, God has not yet provided me with any insight."
  
  Jean pointed. "They're coming back."
  
  Not just coming, but running. Rogue's expression, a combination of red-faced embarrassment and anger, alarmed him.
  
  "What happened?" Scott asked.
  
  "No time," Logan said. "There's a guy who's leaving in two minutes. He works for a manufactured-home company and he's transporting part of a house to Minneapolis."
  
  "An actual house?" Kurt asked. "That sounds much better than stealing a car."
  
  "Yeah, I think this one classifies as breaking and entering. You guys ready to go?"
  
  They followed Logan out into the vast parking lot, which seemed more like a way station for an army of semis. Toward the center, surrounded on both sides by two trucks bearing the sign OVERSIZED, they found one half of the manufactured home. The other side of it squatted several wide spaces to the left.
  
  "Does it really matter which one we take?" Scott asked.
  
  "Guess not." Logan pulled a pocketknife from his jeans—a gift from James, who had also given them clean clothes, some food to carry, and a backpack for their few belongings. Scott could not take money, but those other things seemed less... offensive than cold hard cash.
  
  You're too technical—and you're a hypocrite.
  
  Very true. He was also an anal-retentive control freak, but not everyone could be perfect.
  
  Plastic sheeting covered the inner half of the home; Logan cut a small slit into the farthest edge, a space just large enough for them to fit through, and held it open as they squeezed into the house. It was not that easy. The actual floor was at least three feet off the ground, requiring a bit of maneuvering that was difficult with hard plastic shoved tight against his back. Scott missed being tall.
  
  Despite some difficulties, less than a minute later they all sat in a back bedroom, the farthest spot away from the white plastic barrier separating them from the road. Logan occasionally peered out the windows.
  
  "I thought that guy was leaving soon," Rogue muttered, when after several minutes the truck still had not moved.
  
  "What happened in there?" Scott asked, peering into her red face.
  
  "Nothing," she said. He looked at Logan, who shrugged and scratched his head.
  
  "Some, uh, derogatory language was used by our ticket out of here. He saw you three sitting on that bench and thought it was funny."
  
  Rogue sucked in a deep breath. "He made me so mad I wanted to hit him."
  
  "Nearly did, too. That's part of the reason we ran out of there so fast."
  
  Somewhere distant they heard voices; a car door slammed and then an engine roared to life. The house vibrated.
  
  "Perfect," Logan said. "This is slow, but we'll get to Minneapolis by tonight."
  
  "You're right, that is slow." Scott tapped the newspaper against his thigh. "I feel as though we've got a deadline. Thing is, I don't known when it is."
  
  "And if we're too late?" Logan asked.
  
  Scott felt everyone stare at him, but he did not say a word. He felt just as lost as they did.
  
  Rolling down the freeway in a manufactured home was not, Scott decided, such a bad way to travel. Except for the fact that it was agonizingly slow. So slow, he wanted to pull his hair out—a feat he could actually accomplish for the first time in his life, given that his hair was now a length suitable for gripping.
  
  "I can't stand this," he said to Jean. "Not knowing what is going on at home is driving me crazy."
  
  "Me too," she said, stretched out on her stomach. The carpet had plastic over it, which crinkled every time they moved. "There's not much we can do about it, though."
  
  So for the rest of the day he tried to rest, to strategize a response for an imaginary series of events that would likely never take place, but if it did, was currently out of his control. Such as assassination attempts on the President of the United States, or some other world leader; declarations of aggression against all humans; joining the Brotherhood of Mutants, which, now that he thought about it, might very well have orchestrated this little body crisscross. The only problem with that was the Brotherhood were usually much flashier—and they liked to brag a whole lot more. Scott could not imagine one of them pulling this off without coming to the mental hospital to rub it in their faces.
  
  And if it was the Brotherhood, the X-Men would probably already be in the newspapers by now.
  
  Unless it was something else they were after. Technology, maybe. Secret files that Scott and Jean would most certainly have access to. The possibilities were endlessly troubling. He needed aspirin.
  
  He took a nap and dreamed about James resting inside a grave full of writhing tentacles, smiling and crying, with Dog perched on the edge, howling at the moon. He woke up, gasping, and felt Jean do the same. She held her head.
  
  "What is it?" he asked, reaching for her. It was getting easier to look into her stranger's face and feel desire. It also helped that they were alone; the others had retreated into the living room for a game of cards, another of James's gifts. The bedroom was all theirs.
  
  "That sensation in my head. It was stronger this time. There was a definite focus."
  
  "Do you think she—whoever—got anything from you?"
  
  "I don't think so, but it has me worried. At first I could tell myself it was an accident, but now it's looking deliberate." She hesitated, looking at her hands. "I suppose it could be something else."
  
  "What?"
  
  "Well, it occurred to me that if our counterparts inherited our physical abilities, like my telepathy, for example, then we should also have inherited some of theirs. As in, their mental illnesses. Patty, for example, is supposed to be a paranoid schizophrenic, while you apparently suffer from some debilitating social disorder, which is vague enough to be completely unhelpful. Rogue's chart, according to Kurt, has her diagnosed as suffering from an acute bipolar disorder. And I'm just mean and delusional."
  
  Scott waited for more. Jean sighed. "My point is that even if our consciousnesses have been transferred, we should still be suffering from the same physical abnormalities as the people we are occupying. Just because the thinking minds are different, does not mean the brains are."
  
  "So you're saying we should be crazy."
  
  "Yes. At the very least, displaying some symptoms of mental illness."
  
  "And if some of us have always been a little crazy?"
  
  "Logan doesn't count, Scott." Jean tried not to smile. He nudged her with his elbow, forcing her to make room against her much larger side. It was odd being the smaller person in their relationship. He was getting used to it, though he liked it better the other way around.
  
  "So," he whispered, angling his mouth close to her ear—his ear, a man's ear—and shutting his eyes, "I understand what you're saying, but unless we start frothing at the mouths and speaking in tongues, I don't see how it matters. Science isn't going to get us home. The man who did this, on the other hand..."
  
  "We'll figure it out," Jean whispered. "Now rest a little, Scott. Go to sleep."
  
  Lulled by her voice, her touch, he did.