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Here's a fragment of a large tg novel for the enjoyment of your readers. The entire story is far too large to post here, I'm afraid (about 350,000 words). (And besides, I'm hoping to get it published commercially.) In spite of the magical aspect of the submitted fragment, the novel is sci fi, with the technology only slightly beyond present-day capabilities. In both the fragment and the entirety, the plot revolves around the forced metamorphosis of a self-centered male-chauvinist philandering professional white man to an ignorant and illiterate, mixed-race peasant girl, who will be forced by her circumstances to accept a menial job as the maid of the woman he seduced and abandoned. Enjoy! Tammy Denise -- Year IV: Happily Ever After -- January 1 -- On midmorning of New Year's Day, Graciela's old boyfriend stirred in bed. He knew where he was, and why: he was at a cheap hotel with Laura, his current girlfriend, for a weekend of lust. As he lay quietly under a sheet and blanket, his body clad in an old rumpled pair of blue pajamas, he savored his success with women. But then he sensed that Laura wasn't there. He raised his head and his eyes widened in surprise. Graciela Herrera, his old girlfriend whom he had abandoned pregnant, sat watching him, a smirk on her face. "Good morning, lover boy," she greeted him cheerfully. "I bet you're surprised to see me after leaving me in the lurch. I told you, you wouldn't get away with it." He sat up. "So you found me. So what? You can't do nothing. I'll help some with the baby, like I told you, but I still ain't going to marry you. But where's Laura?" "She went home. As for your offer of help with the baby, it's most generous. I'll accept it, thank you. It's a full-time job, for sixteen years or so." "No, 'Lita, I won't never do that. Like I said, that's women's work. Your work. I'll help you, that's all. You're having the baby; you'll take care of it." "Anatomy is destiny, right?" She cocked her head quizzically. "That's your final word?" "Damn right. When I left, I told you that. Deny it if you want, but it's true." "If you think babies are strictly women's work, you should've been a woman. Then you could deal with 3 AM feedings and diapers. And cooking and sewing and laundry. And making yourself pretty for a man, of course. I bet you'd love to do your face and fix your hair every morning." She nodded thoughtfully and added, "I wonder how you'd enjoy having to obey a macho husband. He'd have absolute authority over you, you know." "You're full of shit, but what you think don't matter. Or what I think neither. I'm a man, you're a woman, and that's the way it is. If it ain't fair, well, tough shit. You're stuck with it, I'm not. Now get the hell out of here, bitch. Don't make me call security." He lay back and pulled the covers over himself. Graciela giggled mischievously. His boorish behavior made her game with him even more delicious. "Sit up, darling," she ordered. As he reluctantly obeyed, he asked, "Why?" in a petulant tone. She giggled again. "You read a lot of fantasy. 'Imaginative fiction', you call it?" "So what?" He was still groggy from sleep, but his annoyance was apparent. "So imagine I'm a bruja. Imagine I can wave my hand and change you to a girl, a little bit at a time. Then you'd be fit for 'women's work'. Like caring for your child." As he began to retreat beneath the covers, she added, "Well, I've got a surprise for you, dear. I am a bruja, and I'm going to do just that." Suiting action to word, she waved a hand negligently. "Look at your fingernails." He glanced at them, then stared in a double take. His nails, elegantly manicured, were coated with glossy scarlet enamel. "The bitch must've done it while I slept," he thought. "Aren't they pretty?" she asked him. "But that's only the start, dear. I'll give you a real eye-opener." She gestured rapidly and pointed two fingers at him. "You always liked big breasts, and you thought mine weren't big enough. Presto! You have tits. I think they're big enough, even for you. I hope you appreciate them." He sat up again, beginning to awaken. "'Lita, you're crazy! You ain't no bruja. There ain't no such thing! Now fuck off!" He ignored her declaration (and his nails). She stood up and moved closer to him. "This is such fun! You don't believe I'm a bruja? There's no such thing? Take off your pajama top and admire your new boobs, my skeptical norteamericano sweetheart. Then we'll see if you still doubt my power." Obediently he took off his top. His jaw dropped as he saw large breasts inexplicably adorning his chest. He hadn't felt a change; it seemed as if he'd always had breasts. Suddenly he was fully awake. "No, 'Lita! You can't do this! It's crazy! I'm going crazy!" "No, you're not crazy. It's real. I have complete power over you, body and soul." Disbelief at this absurd statement warred with the evidence, literally in front of him. She continued: "For as long as I've known you, you've told me exactly what a woman should do. Now you'll have the opportunity to put your knowledge to practical use. You'll show me how a woman should behave. You'll spend the rest of your life showing me." The object of her attention was still protesting as he gawked at his breasts, and Graciela snapped, "Listen to me, cabron! Shut up and pay attention!" He jerked his head up and gaped at her. His mouth opened and shut, but he found that he was mute. Graciela's voice resumed its honeyed tone as she went on: "That's better, tootsie. As you see, I do have the power to change you. Aren't your breasts just lovely?" Smiling sweetly, she sat on the bed next to him. "Now that you're convinced of my powers of brujera, I'll do a little more. Like maybe your larynx: as a woman, you ought to have a high voice." Befuddled, he raised a hand to his throat. "Yes, rub it," she told him. "It's becoming a girl's throat -- no Adam's apple, you know. I bewitched you so the more you rub, the higher your voice gets. Keep rubbing it..." Unwillingly he obeyed. "Your voice is higher now... a little higher... OK, that's enough." She raised an eyebrow: "You can talk again, darling. But you'll talk in soprano." He lowered his hand and started to speak. "Please, 'Lita. Don't..." His thin soprano voice, high-pitched even for a girl, squeaked as he tried to lower it. "I... But..." He stopped short. Graciela inspected him as he sat next to her, thoroughly bewildered. "I'll work from the head down," she declared. "You'd look cute with long braids and pretty hair ribbons. Voila!" She gestured; he touched his head, incredulously fingering a jet-black braid held by a scarlet bow. "Now turn your face to me, dear. I'll caress it like I used to -- except I'll change it as I touch it." She reached out to him. He tried to pull away, but his will was paralyzed, and he turned towards her. She stroked his cheek, almost affectionately. "No more mustache for you, Senor. Or beard either. You won't ever have to shave your face again. It'll always be soft and smooth, like a girl's should be. And I'll give you dark skin. Indian blood, you know. And maybe African? Yes, I think so." She withdrew her hand. He felt his baby-smooth cheeks and chin, then stared at the backs of his hands. They were coffee-colored, easy on the cream. He wasn't white any more. "Let's see... You've got tits. I'll do your hips and waist next." She waved: "There! Your figure's done." Then she frowned: "But your muscles..." Gesturing again, she remarked, "That's better. You're weak now. Like a girl." He stared at his slender waist and shrunken biceps. As before, he'd felt nothing, but his body was changed. He leaped from his bed, clad only in pajama bottoms, his bare breasts bouncing. "'Lita, stop this nonsense!" he protested in a piping voice as he searched for trousers. "This ain't possible! It's a trick!" "Stop!" she ordered. He stopped short. "What are you looking for, sweetheart?" "My clothes! Where are they? I left them right here. I got to get out of here...!" Graciela laughed in delight, her dark eyes sparkling. "Not quite yet, darling." She pointed to the mirror. "Look at yourself, dear. You look like a girl. A peasant girl, just like you deserve. Tell me true, isn't that the cutest face? Your pout is so... so seductive-looking! And that figure... Oh, my goodness!" She gave a little wolf-whistle. "You are a sexy little piece of ass, true? Only a peasant, with that face and that dark skin, but sexy-looking." In the mirror he saw a bare-breasted young woman with a slim waist and broad hips. His black braids framed a dark-skinned face. It was the face of a young mestiza -- but it wasn't his. Or not the face he'd gone to bed with. "That ain't me!" he cried in disbelief. He couldn't think; his mind was paralyzed by panic (and by drugs, of course). "Answer me," she insisted remorselessly. "I'm ordering you. Don't you have a pretty face?" He stared at the image. "I... I... Yes, I am... I have a... have a pretty face... No! I'm a man!" He turned to her, fell to his knees, and began to sob. "P..please, 'Lita, stop... stop this!" Merciless, Graciela went on: "A man? Once you were, yes. But look at your tits. Feel them, like you used to feel mine." Helplessly he stared at his shapely torso, then felt his breasts, cupping them with scarlet-tipped fingers. The nipples were exquisitely sensitive. "Does that feel like a man's chest?" Through tears he admitted, "No... no, it's a... woman's chest. I'm a woman. B..but that ain't... it ain't possible! I...I'm just dreaming!" Graciela -- his once-beloved 'Lita, whom he'd bedded and given a child -- leered at him. "Actually, you're not a girl. Not quite yet. You still have balls." He was relieved; he was a man. She went on: "But you don't deserve balls. I'll fix that. A bit more brujera, and you won't misuse them again." She gestured briefly, then pantomimed a twist and yank with her right hand as she surreptitiously pushed a button on a hidden remote control with her left hand. As 'Lita gestured, her victim felt a sudden, but fleeting, pain in his groin. He groped for his crotch beneath his pajamas. There wasn't anything between his legs. She had taken his manhood. Helpless, he began to weep uncontrollably again. Between sobs he begged, "No, please. 'Lita, please, no!" Delighted by his weakness, she said, "Listen to you. You're crying like a girl. Well, I suppose it's appropriate. You are a girl now, aren't you?" "Gra... Graciela!" he pleaded. "N..no! Have... have mercy! Please, for the... the love of God, put me back! Put me back! I'll do anything... Anything at all!" "It's too late. It's done. Your body's changed forever. Stand up and take off your bottoms. Then look again at your new body in the mirror." He stared at the image of a nude woman -- his image. As Graciela took his pajamas, she told him, "'Anatomy is destiny', true? Then you're looking at your fate in the mirror -- Senorita! Tell me: what sex are you? What's your anatomy, my lovely?" A triangle of curly black hair was visible in his crotch. Nothing more. Gaping at the mirror, he whimpered, "I... I'm female. I'm a woman." He appeared to be in shock. 'Lita giggled. "You sure are! Sexy as hell, too. But you shouldn't run around naked. There's a nightie on the bed. Put it on." Forced to obey, he pulled it on; his lush new body wasn't hidden, only blurred. She told him, "You gave this nightie to your maid. You look even sexier in it. The men'll admire you in that outfit, I bet." She was right, he saw with horror. "And you'll appreciate it too; I gave you a body that'll need a man. You'll be very talented in bed. But not with Laura, I'm afraid. Now sit down, girl. I'll tell you what to expect, now that you're a campesina. Making a living isn't easy for a single girl. Jobs are scarce. But you can be a maid. My own pretty little maid. You'll work hard for me: washing dishes, cleaning clothes, sewing... All the things you called 'women's work'. It's your work now." A campesina? Yes, he'd seen the image in the mirror. It was burned into his brain: braided black hair and high cheekbones; almond eyes, flattish nose, thick lips, and dark skin. They marked him as a mixed-race peasant girl. His braids swung as he shook his head and wailed, "'Lita, I'm sorry! For... for God's sake, don't leave me like this! Please, make me a man again. A white man! I won't leave you, I'll help with the baby. I'll marry you, I'll be your husband." Graciela smiled and shook her head. "You can't be my husband, carita ma. Or any girl's husband. You don't qualify: you're female. I think you will marry -- but you'll marry a big strong man. You'll be a sweet little bride for some lucky peasant. But you're part right. You won't leave me, and you will help with my baby -- our baby. In fact, I have an idea!" Her face lit up. "You told me women are meant to care for children. That's what breasts are for, true?." She waved a hand again as her proposed wetnurse cringed and begged her in vain to stop. "It's done. Your breasts have milk. They'll ache if you don't remove it. Use a breast pump for now -- it's in your purse, and you know how to use it -- but later I'll watch you nurse a baby." She clapped her hands with glee. "Won't you look precious, with an infant at your breast!" "No!" he cried, suddenly furious. "I won't! I refuse! You can't make me do that!" "Like I couldn't give you tits, I suppose. You'll see, my little heifer." Then she fished in her purse and held out a lipstick and a mirror to him. "You're a lovely girl, cutie, but now you'll have to work to stay attractive. It's a girl's duty. Freshen your makeup. Be dainty, now; use the mirror, and blot it when you're done." Like a zombie he took the cosmetic, applied it carefully, then blotted it. It was scarlet, like his nails. Inexplicably, he never thought of disobeying her. Smiled sweetly, Graciela told him he looked pretty and handed him another gift. "Now put on these earrings." The earrings were tiny silver bells that tinkled as he took them. Unable to refuse, he gently thrust a post through one lobe, then the other. They went in quickly and efficiently, as if he'd practiced often. "Excellent!" she exclaimed. "You won't remove them, of course. You like jewelry, just like any girl. Now, you were asking for your clothing. I'm afraid they won't fit any more, so I did you the favor of bringing you new clothes. They're in the drawer. Put them on." He opened the dresser drawer. The promised clothing was there: lingerie, a red dress, low (but stiletto-heeled) red pumps and a matching handbag, and jewelry. Obediently he stripped off his nightgown and began to dress. He pulled on panties, slipped into patterned panty hose, and unwillingly donned the bra and half slip. The dress had slightly puffed short sleeves, a deeply scooped neckline, and a skirt above the knees. He struggled with the rear zipper, but finally managed to fasten it. When at last he stepped into the pumps, Graciela exclaimed, "Look in the mirror, dear. Aren't you lovely! Maybe a bit cheap-looking, but quite attractive, true? You'll love the way that sexy little dress shows off your figure. And you always liked heels; they give a girl such a cute walk." He looked again in the mirror. The clothes fit him well. Too well: every delectable (but now detestable!) feminine curve was displayed. The neckline was low enough to show the beginning of cleavage, and his nipples showed faintly through the thin fabric of the bodice. The dress wasn't quite indecent, but it succeeded in its intended purpose of exhibiting the female body effectively. As he stared at the slut in the mirror, Graciela rose gracefully and gazed at her former lover with delight. "Well, I'm done except for one last touch." She gestured again. "Now your mind matches your body. You're as ignorant as you look. You aren't good for anything but cooking, cleaning, caring for babies... women's work. The kind of work you'll do when you help me with our child, as you promised. Come to the villa in Tela and start your new career. You know where it is; it's where you seduced me. Remember? My dirty laundry'll be waiting for you. That's your life from now on: laundry, dirty dishes, sewing, feeding babies... And maybe having babies: you're a baby machine now! Good luck, Senorita. You'll get used to that title quickly; 'Senor' just doesn't suit you any more, does it?" With that remark she left. He sat, dazed, for five minutes. Then he went to the mirror again. She must have hypnotized him, he thought. The whole notion of waving a hand and changing him to a woman was foolish. He'd wake up soon and laugh at the idea. But the image in the mirror seemed real... was horribly real. He had breasts. Breasts with milk, if 'Lita spoke truly -- and he believed her. The dress displayed a very sexy body. He should've been aroused by the sight, but horror was all he felt; the anatomy needed for arousal wasn't there any more. Well, he'd leave and hide where 'Lita'd never be able to find him. Once he got away, surely he could reverse this madness. He looked at his wrist; a dainty watch told him it was almost checkout time. Where had the time gone? He'd run to Tegucigalpa; he could find help there. But he couldn't go in these clothes, looking like a cheap whore. Where were his own clothes? But they were gone, both the suitcase full of clean clothes, and yesterday's dirty clothing. He was trapped in a dress, at least for the moment. As he tried to plan, there was a knock at the door. "Who is it?" he cried, his girlish soprano cracking in despair. A key turned in the lock, and a maid's head came around the door. Her eyes widened in surprise. "Senora, it's checkout time. I have to clean the room now. Unless you're staying another day?" He quickly replied, "No, I'm leaving." He couldn't stay where Graciela might find him again. He had to run, suitable clothing or not. "Give me a few minutes, please, and I'll be out." "Yes, Senora, but quickly, or you'll be charged another day." She withdrew. Cursing Graciela, he picked up his purse and left. He minced to a nearby bus stop on his heels. Oddly, he had no problem walking, as though he were used to stiletto heels. When he reached the stop, he sat on a bench and considered his predicament. He was inexplicably trapped in a girl's body, in a streetwalker's dress. He saw men casting interested glances in his direction, and cringed inside. He checked the purse and sighed with relief. Nothing was missing: he had almost six hundred lempiras in cash, two thousand dollars in traveler's checks, a VISA card, and his passport. It was all the money she'd had -- no, that he had had -- before his incredible and shocking mutation. He considered his options. First, money: in addition to traveler's checks and cash, he had a credit card. Money was no problem, then. He had enough to keep running. He'd find his way out of the nightmare after he'd escaped Graciela's vengeance. The cash would last only a couple of days, but the traveler's checks and credit card... A frightening thought struck him. The checks, the VISA card -- he'd need a photo ID! He couldn't pass as the norteamericano he'd been only an hour earlier. He fished out his passport and looked at the photo. It was familiar. Yes! That was her... no, his -- HIS -- face. If he -- he forced himself to think he, he only looked like a woman -- if he could cut her... his hair, disguise the figure, buy men's clothes, maybe sh... he could use the passport, the VISA, the checks. He had to. He recalled his image in the mirror. His face did not resemble the photo. He found another document in the purse: an ID card with the face of a campesina. The face on the ID had full red lips set in a permanent pout, high cheekbones, a small, slightly receding chin, and a small nose. He recognized her -- the girl he'd seen in the mirror. Somehow Graciela had changed his face, and there was no mistaking him for his old self. He was a campesina without a doubt, and his former self had unquestionably been a norteamericano. Then there was her... his voice. It was soprano. No, the passport was useless. So was the credit card. And the checks. Sh... he had five hundred and eighty-three lemps. He couldn't go far on that. A few days, and it'd run out. Well, he'd call his family. He'd disguise his voice, and ask them to wire some money. Then he'd see about getting changed back to a man. It wasn't possible, of course. But it wasn't possible for Graciela to change him to a woman, either. If she could do that, then there had to be a way back. When a bus arrived, he couldn't read the destination, but a bystander told him it was headed for Tegucigalpa. Sighing with relief, he got on. 'Lita would never catch him! He sat in the rear, then self-consciously tugged his dress lower -- it was far too short -- but then his breasts were left more exposed, and he had to pull it back up. It was definitely too skimpy. The first thing he'd do would be buy new clothing. A shirt -- a loose shirt -- and trousers. As the bus rolled southward from the Sula valley, Ibanez monitored the fugitive's location. Her tracer indicated that she was running from her fate. Probably to Tegucigalpa, he thought. That wasn't a problem. She'd return when she discovered how limited her options were. He called Graciela and told her, "It looks like our subject won't reach Tela tonight, Senora. She's headed south, maybe to Tegus." It was plain that their subject hadn't yet grasped the full implications of his transformation. Her voice, tinny over the mobile phone, replied, "You can keep track of her, can't you?" "No problem. I think she took a bus. The signal's attenuate by the shielding, but we have a portable tracker following her. I'll give no more than a day or so, but I think she'll be back on her own. She doesn't understand her difficulties yet. Her money'll run out soon." She giggled. "You were right when you said George would return. You should've seen his face when 'he' realized he was female. She was very unhappy. By now she has to realize her attire isn't practical for travel. It's a cocktail-waitress dress my brother bought for her. I think she'll buy other clothes. Do you suppose she'll get male clothing, and try to pass for a man?" "I doubt it," Ibanez replied with a chuckle. "She'll realize it's not possible, not with that little-girl voice and that big-girl figure. No, she'll stay in women's clothes. If she changes, it'll just be into something less provocative. I wonder, though: how long before she realizes that running is useless? Don Pablo told me he considered letting George run when he tried to escape from the finca. Now we'll see just how long he can dispute reality." Their subject became even less happy before he reached Tegucigalpa. He was propositioned twice, and in the crush on the bus he received six surreptitious fondles and three pinches. Other women looked at him disapprovingly. One scolded him, saying she should be ashamed to appear in public like that. He determined to buy a less revealing outfit at the first opportunity. When the bus halted, he rushed to a clothing store across the street. His first thought was to buy men's clothing: shirt, trousers, and shoes. He discarded that idea. He couldn't pass for a man, whatever his attire, and he'd better wear women's clothes for now. No dresses or skirts, though. As he dithered, a salesgirl approached and inquired, "May I help you, Senora?" "Yes, please. I'm looking for inexpensive slacks and a shirt. I don't know my size." "Very well, come with me." The girl led her customer to a rack of women's slacks, and with a glance at his figure, picked a section of the rack. "Try these on, Senora. They should fit." In the dressing room, he found that the salesgirl had chosen well, and the clothing did fit. His waist and hips were still displayed, but the slacks weren't indecently tight. He didn't intend to waste much time or money shopping, and he accepted them. He did the same for two floral-print shirts, paid for them, and gratefully changed into shirt and slacks. He wanted to buy more comfortable shoes too, but decided to keep the pumps until he had more cash. He left carrying his extra clothes in a shopping bag. Next on the agenda was a cheap room. The Hotel Los Robles was down the block, the sales clerk had said, and he made his way there. The hotel was tiny and dirty, but it was cheap. When the desk clerk looked at him dubiously and demanded identification, he reluctantly displayed the campesina identification card. The clerk accepted it and asked him to sign a registration. He hated signing under a woman's name, but he was clearly female, so he'd have to use the name on the ID. He tried to read it. But he couldn't. It took a moment before it struck him: he couldn't read. With renewed horror he recalled 'Lita's words: "Your mind matches your body. You're as ignorant as you look." Breaking into tears, he told the clerk he couldn't fill it out, and the man scornfully copied the name from his ID card. He fled to his room, where he pulled out the passport. It was incomprehensible except for the numerals, which he still recognized. That was why he'd been unable to make out the bus destination. He sobbed hysterically for ten minutes. This was a nightmare. It had to be; he'd wake up any minute. But he didn't. After he'd wept himself out, he stood and looked at himself in the mirror, then undid his braids and brushed his long hair out. At least he didn't have to look like a peasant. Afterwards he lay on his back and considered his plight anew. He was in a woman's body, with a high soprano voice, the face of a mestiza, and an undisguisably lush figure. In fact, his breasts felt "tight" and had begun to ache. He recalled what else Graciela had told him: "Your breasts will hurt if you don't remove the milk. Use the breast pump in your purse." It was inconceivable that he'd need to do that, but then, the existence of his breasts was inconceivable. Reluctantly he checked his handbag, and indeed there was a device that he somehow knew was a breast pump. In the privacy of his room he stripped off his shirt, unhooked his bra, and looked at his breasts with disgust. Sure enough, both were leaking a drop or two of milk. He fought off a wave of revulsion. Deal with reality, he told himself. If you need to do it, then do it. He fit a cup over his nipple and worked the pump. A stream of milk squirted into a bottle and slowly accumulated as he pumped. When his right breast was emptied, he did the same for his left. Once done, he was more comfortable. He donned his bra and shirt with relief and returned to his problems: first and immediately, how to obtain some money; second, how to recover his identity; third, what to do about his inability to read. Call home? Assuming he could disguise his absurd voice, then who could he call? His parents? Let's see, they lived in San Pedro Sula... No! That was false! How could he ever think that? His father lived in Ames... But he couldn't recall the state! And the phone number was gone. He ran through his friends and relatives, and found that he couldn't call anyone. He was on his own. What about the Embassy? They'd help him. But then he realized that, in this body, with this face, he didn't look like a norteamericano any more. He was a Honduran woman. The Embassy wouldn't help him. But maybe he could claim help as an American woman. After all, he spoke good English, not Spanish. He'd say his passport and other papers and money were stolen. "Yo soy una norteamericana," he said aloud, then recognized that he'd spoken Spanish instead! "Nac en los estados unidos, en el estado..." he started again, then stopped; he was still speaking Spanish. Concentrating, he managed to force out, "I is... I is borned in los estados unidos, in... in Tejas?" That didn't seem right, but he couldn't remember his birthplace. For some reason it seemed almost as if he might have been born in Honduras -- the slums of Comayag?ela flashed into his mind -- but he rejected that idea as nonsense. Suddenly he realized that he no longer spoke English like a norteamericano. In fact, most of his English had vanished. He spoke Spanish -- with impossibly fluency. Not only did he look like a hondurena, he sounded like one. And he was illiterate! What had that witch done to him? This wasn't possible! He began to weep again with frustration and anger. Hunger finally drove him from his room. He found a cheap restaurant and ordered supper. After he paid, he checked his dwindling cash. The clothes and the hotel had dented his nest egg noticeably. What would he do when it was gone? Now he realized why Graciela had left him alone: there was nowhere to go, no way to escape. His new body was his prison, and there was no option but to return to Graciela. As soon as possible: his resources wouldn't last two more days. He returned to the hotel, stripped off his clothing, and went to bed, trying not to look at his alien and misshapen body. He cried himself to sleep. January 2 -- Early the next morning, a supine figure stirred in bed. She felt strange; what was wrong? Rolling onto her stomach, she felt an uncomfortable pressure, as if... and she suddenly became alert. Rolling on her back, she saw her breasts, and her personal hell returned. She.. HE was changed to a girl. A Honduran peasant girl. "No!" he insisted to himself; "I'm a man! A norteamericano...! I'm..." But he couldn't recall his name. And the sight of his body proved that it wasn't just a nightmare. Not only was he wearing female flesh, but he was dark-skinned, with a stranger's face. And a glance at a posted notice told him he was still illiterate. Nevertheless, he had to deal with his reality. First, the pressure in his breasts forced him to use the breast pump. Then he had to don his women's clothing, to leave for breakfast. At least the shirt and slacks were more decent than the dress he'd had earlier, but they still showed his figure plainly. He knew he'd be a focus of male attention again. He had a quick meal of fried eggs, then returned to the bus station, where he bought a ticket for Tela. Graciela had him dead to rights. 'Lita had put him into this body; only 'Lita could restore him, if he could persuade her. The ride to San Pedro took forever. He received less overt harassment in his new, more conservative outfit, but he was acutely aware of his own figure, and men still ogled him. To his dismay, he found himself returning their interest: he was attracted to men, not women. He wondered how 'Lita had bewitched him. It wasn't just a sex change, either. ("Just a sex change?," he thought bitterly.) He didn't look at all like... like whoever he'd been. His skin and hair color, his face -- he looked like a typical campesina. The sorcery wasn't even limited to his body. His English was poor now, and his Spanish, excellent. Two days ago communication had been a struggle, but now he spoke and understood Spanish perfectly. He hadn't even known his English was gone until he tried to speak the language. San Pedro provided a quick lunch, and he found a Tela bus as he'd found the San Pedro bus in the morning, by asking waiting riders. His bewilderment continued, as he tried to think of any sane explanation for events. There was none. This couldn't be real. By now he knew it wasn't a nightmare he'd escape on awakening. His breasts were only too real, and his new crotch. Maybe it was hypnosis; but somewhere he'd read that hypnosis could only persuade a subject to believe what he wanted to believe, and he definitely didn't want to believe this. He got off in Tela. The villa was a long walk in heels, and his feet quickly became sore. In twenty minutes he reached his destination. The bougainvillea was still blooming, and he could almost imagine that he was there for another romantic interlude. Reluctantly he approached the door and knocked. There was no response; he knocked again. 'Lita finally opened the door and observed him smugly. "It took you long enough to get here, sweetheart," she remarked. "Did you like the Hotel Los Robles?" How did she know where he'd been? He dismissed the question; it didn't matter. "'Lita, please, help me!" he begged. "You told me to come to Tela. Here I am. Please, for the love of God, help me!" "Of course I'll help you. Don't you like your new body, now that you've been a girl for over a day? I hope you appreciate how pretty I made you. Or more accurately, how sexy. You'll never be considered a great beauty. Your face is attractive enough, in a peasant sort of way, but it's really your body that's going to fascinate every male over twelve." Distraught, he begged, "Please, 'Lita, put me back the way I was. I can't live like this!" Graciela smiled like Torquemada with a new soul to save. "Of course you can. And you will. You don't have a choice. You'll get used to being female. But if you want to talk with me, you'll need to dress properly. You've got a nice body, and I want you to show it off." Her visitor's heart sank as he stared at 'Lita, standing in the door. "What do you mean?" Patiently, as if explaining a simple fact to an idiot, Graciela asked, "What sex are you?" "God damn it, 'Lita, you put me in this wretched body. What sex do I look like?" She frowned. "If you want me to help you, answer me respectfully. I repeat: What sex are you? Are you a man or a woman?" "I'm a woman. You turned me into a woman." He almost cried with frustration and anger. "Very good, darling. Now, don't you remember what you told me a couple of months ago? About what women should wear, and men? Tell me again." As if it had been wrung out of him, he replied in a halting voice, "Women... women should wear dresses... and... and skirts. Only... only men wear... men wear pants." "Therefore, Senorita, what do you want to wear now?" His face distorted, he cried, "I want to wear pants!" Graciela giggled. "I suppose you're right, literally. But what do you have to wear now?" He paused, but had to reply: "A skirt? Are you saying I got to wear a skirt?" Graciela nodded in agreement: "Right! No pants for you, girlie; skirts from now on. It's your own idea, remember? And you'll have to wear something a little more appropriate -- more feminine, more... more revealing -- than that shirt. I'll talk when you're dressed right." He spluttered, "But... but 'Lita... But you're wearing slacks!" As indeed she was. She shook her head and pointed out that she'd never insisted that women should be restricted to skirts. "It was you who told me that. You were very firm about it. Now that you're female, you'll have to follow your own rules." He surrendered in despair. "But I ain't got no clothes like that with me." He ignored the red dress Graciela had given him, still in its bag. "Please, 'Lita, at least let me talk with you." Sighing, Graciela opened the door wide and invited her visitor in. "I'm too soft-hearted, but I'll help out. I'll give you proper clothing. After all, you're becoming my maid." She led him to the bedroom where they'd slept together so recently. Graciela selected a lace-trimmed sleeveless lavender top, a narrow calf-length cerise skirt, and a long half-slip from her wardrobe. "Wear these for now. Put them on if you want to talk." Silently he stripped, then pulled on the new clothes without further protest. The top, snug and elastic, clung to his breasts. The skirt showed off his waist and hips. Oddly, he felt more comfortable in a skirt -- as if slacks had been wrong for him. Graciela nodded in approval. "There, that's better, isn't it?" she remarked. "You told me a girl should dress to please men. Look at yourself. That's what you meant, true? You'll please men now." She giggled and reminded him, "You called yourself a connoisseur of breasts. Look at yourself, sweetie; you have a great pair of your own! Aren't you grateful?" Staring at the mirror, he saw a young woman with an excellent figure, well displayed. Of his gender there was no doubt. "OK, I got a skirt on. Now will you help me, 'Lita?" "Of course I will, my pretty little turtledove. I told you I'd help you. I'm offering you a job as my maid. There's not much else you can do now, you know. Do you want it?" "No, 'Lita! I ain't no maid, I'm a chemist! I want you to put me back. I insist! Give me back my identity! My manhood!" His frustration mounted, and tears flowed down his cheeks. She sighed. "You think you're still a chemist? You learn slowly, dear. Tell me, what's bromine? Or the formula for table salt?" He knew he had taught Graciela those very facts, but now, to his horror, he didn't remember them. As 'Lita raised an eyebrow, he realized that his technical education was gone with his literacy and his English. Graciela continued: "Once upon a time, you were an educated norteamericano -- a privileged man -- but you abused your position. No longer. Now you're a hondurena, an ignorant mestiza. I left you with the intellect of a campesina, and no more. Girls like you aren't chemists, or accountants, or lawyers. They take menial jobs -- doing laundry, or cleaning toilets, or working as maids. That's what you're going to do. You'll be my maid. It's a good job -- for an illiterate colored girl. For you." "'Lita, I can't be a maid. I ain't trained for it. Give me back what you took, please! I ain't really no campesina, I am a norteamericano. I am! I was born in the U.S. You know it!" Pausing as if thinking, Graciela agreed. "You do have a point, dear. You definitely have the wrong background for your new life. But your old life is gone. What's a girl to do?" Then she smiled and declared, "Fortunately, I can help you. I'll give you exactly the background you need. After all, with your ideas, you shouldn't've been a man at all. Ever. You should've been born a girl, so you could practice what you preach." Her guest denied it vigorously, objecting and pleading, but to no avail as Graciela nodded thoughtfully. "That's a good idea; I'll make it so. I'll change your past so you weren't raised in trousers at all, but in skirts. You'll've been born and raised here in Honduras, just a peasant girl." Incredulous, he protested, "That's nonsense, 'Lita! The past is... is past. You can't change it. Whatever I am now, whatever you changed me to..." -- and he knew she'd truly remade him into a campesina -- "I was a norteamericano. I grew up as a boy in... in..." San Pedro? No! But she -- no, he -- couldn't remember! Already Graciela's words seemed to twist his past, and his... her... girlhood began to seem plausible. Suddenly he wanted to run. 'Lita wasn't helping, she was making his nightmare worse. But... but there was nowhere to run. 'Lita was right, somehow. She was a bruja, with the power to remake reality. His own hateful body was proof of that power. Cocking her head, Graciela seemed to consider the matter. "Someone said that everyone is the sum total of his -- or her -- experiences. I want all your past experiences to fit you for your new life as a maid -- and as the sweet and docile girl you held up to me as an ideal. You know: girls cook and sew, and care for children, and follow other people's orders. You'll do all that, yes -- but more than that, it'll come naturally. It'll be second nature - - the way you were raised." "'Lita, you're crazy! I'm trapped in this body, but I'm still me." She chuckled. "Crazy? That's what you said when I gave you tits. My poor little rational skeptic, you're learning the hard way that the world's not just your scientific laws and theorems. It's a lot more than that, and a lot more than you bargained for. My power over you isn't limited to your body. I'm going to change your past, and your soul. You won't be you any more, when I'm done. And it'll be as though you never were. Let's see now... You should be from humble peasant stock. I'll make you the daughter of a poor campesino family. Just like your girlfriend Laura." She thought for a moment, her slender finger at her lip. Then she grinned. "I have it! It's perfect! Did Laura tell you about her family? Describe them for me." Reluctantly her terrified victim obeyed. He couldn't seem to help himself. "Her mother was a maid, and her father died a year ago. She had two younger sisters and a kid brother." "Tell me about her sisters." "The youngest is Juana. She's married, a waitress in Choluteca. The middle sister's Rosa Mara, or Rosita. She got married too, but her husband died, and she had to go to work. She died from a fever, Laura said." He tried to rebel: "But 'Lita, this is nonsense. Please, I..." "That's it! Her sister didn't die after all." Graciela pointed at her victim with two fingers. "I now declare: You're Laura's kid sister. Your name is Rosa Mara. Yes, that's perfect: you'll be Rosita Garza, your girlfriend's sister. She didn't die after all. And you've always been her sister. You were born in Comayag?ela, you grew up in San Pedro, and now you're nineteen. You remember now, don't you?" Her tone became saccharine: "You were a sweet little girl, Rosita. You loved to play with dolls, didn't you? Tell me, chica: What was your favorite dolly's name? When you were eight? She was a gift from... from whom?" Graciela's words struck home. Rosa Mara was her name. It felt absolutely right. And her girlhood crystallized. It was impossibly clear, as if a window had opened on a well-remembered landscape that had always been there. Unbidden, a mental image of himself -- herself -- appeared. She did remember! In her mind's eye she was eight. She wore a lemon-yellow dress and she clutched a doll in her hand. Rosa stammered, "M..my d..doll... I called her Mercedes. From... from papa, on my eighth birthday. No! I was a boy! A BOY!" The shrillness of her protest revealed her shock at this latest outrage. She shook her head in denial, but her eyes held a haunted look that told Graciela she'd succeeded in awakening the past Ibarra had implanted. Rosa felt her old self slipping away like smoke through her fingers even as she tried frantically to clutch at it. Her new identity as a campesina began to take firm root. Nodding, Graciela ignored the outburst and told her approvingly, "You do remember your girlhood now, when you grew up here. You'll find that other people know you're a hondurena too. Including Laura. I know she loved you, so you can become her sister. She'll still love you -- as her little sister. Remember how you and your sisters used to wear identical dresses when you were a little girl? And matching pink hair ribbons, too." The wretched girl standing in front of her shook her head again, but in opposition to all reason she knew it was true; mama used to take them to church in matching outfits. In spite of her abstract knowledge to the contrary, her memory insisted that she was Laura's sister. Graciela grinned. "See? Not only are you a campesina, but you were never anyone else. You do realize you're a campesina?" "Rosa Mara" recalled her new face; it was true. "Now you can be my maid. I altered your past so you've always been female; but I did more than that. You're a girl with the right background for a maid. You can cook, you're a good seamstress -- in fact, you sew for fun." Rosa denied it, and Graciela laughed. "Yes, I know, your old self hated sewing. But you're not him, and Rosita loves to sew. She's always loved it." Graciela sat, leaving Rosa standing in front of her. "Now you have to think about your options. About what you can do for a living. You're not capable of doing anything you used to do as a man. You've lost everything he had. Including his name. You're forgetting it already; just call him Senor Cualquiera. You aren't him any more; you're just Rosa Mara. Don't you agree, Rosita?" She smiled inwardly; Ibarra had told her that their subject's masculine name would be suppressed. "No! I am... I'm... whoever. I just can't prove it." But her desperate attempt to recover her old name was futile. Her memory agreed with 'Lita; she'd never had another name. "You don't look like him. You don't sound like him. You're the wrong gender. He was a scientist; you never made it past tenth grade. You can't even read or write. You barely speak broken English -- you know that, true?" As Rosa flushed and looked down, her tormentor chuckled and added. "You don't even know his name; you call yourself Rosita, don't you?" "Rosita" still tried to deny it. "No! My name is... It's..." But it was gone as though it had never been. She begged, "'Lita, please tell me. What's my name? My real name?" Rosa's masculine self-image, doggedly sustained for two days in obstinate denial of her body, was being destroyed. In spite of her efforts, she knew she was female. Just a teenage peasant girl. "I told you: your real name's Rosa Mara Garza. You're Laura's little sister. You're a peasant. And you know it. You'll never know who you were -- or who you might've been -- before I changed you. Now, like I said, you're just the right kind of girl to become a maid. Do you agree to work for me as my servant? To spend your life washing my dirty clothes, making my bed, and caring for my baby? 'Women's work', like you said." "No, I can't agree. I'm not a peasant. I won't be! I'm not Rosa Mara, I'm... I'm... I can't remember!" But she was just a peasant, she knew to her despair. Involuntarily she glanced down at her bust again, its contours outlined by the clinging lavender top. Of course she was Rosa Mara, a Honduran peasant girl. Yes, she was nineteen years old. And how old was... whoever? He was older than nineteen, she knew, but she couldn't remember. "You still don't remember? I'll jog your memory a bit more." Graciela smiled and asked, "Tell me, Rosita, what color was the dress you wore at Mara's wedding? Did you like it?" Another door opened, another memory flooded back. She saw herself clearly: she'd been eleven then, a bridesmaid for her cousin. She'd worn a frilly pink dress trimmed with white lace. "My dress was... it was pink. And yes, I liked it." But I couldn't have worn that dress, she told herself. Or any dress. I was a boy in... in Dallas then. No, not Dallas, it was... But it was gone. "And your quinceanos. You were pretty then, the prettiest fifteen- year-old girl in the high school. Tell me about it, Rosita." Again Rosa saw herself as a girl. It had been the most wonderful day of her life. Gratefully she lost herself in that memory of past joy. She told Graciela about getting up on Sunday morning, how she'd gone to church with her parents, and Juana, Laura, and Tomas. "Then I helped fix lunch. Afterwards I dressed for the party. My dress was the nicest I'd ever had. I was so proud! And I danced with my boyfriend Rico. We got married later..." She trailed off. Boyfriend? Married?? It was a lie! Or was it? It made more sense than her memory from yesterday, when she'd become a girl. "'Lita, please. I... I'm..." She broke down, unable to go on. Laura had told her about the quinceanos celebration, both her own and her sisters'. And she had talked about Mama Luisa often. But now Rosa saw them through her own memories. And Rosita, Laura's sister... Now she knew she was Rosita, irrevocably and forever. Graciela smiled. "You're confused, Rosita. Weren't you a man yesterday?" "Yes! Yes, I was! But I couldn't... You couldn't... But I was a little girl in San Pedro. I don't know. I don't knoooww!" She wailed the last as if she'd lost her last and dearest friend. "Yes, that's right. You might've been a man, but you were a little girl. Like I said, you're Laura's sister. I said I'd change your past, and I did just that. That man is gone, except in your memory and mine. Yes, he once lived in this version of reality, but he drowned after he left me. You, on the other hand, were born in Honduras. In a while you'll believe you've always been a hondurena. You'll think you were born a girl -- as indeed you were, now -- and you'll doubt you could've been anyone else. You might even forget Senor Cualquiera entirely. Oh, I'll know better; I'll remember him, and I'll see him in the campesina you've become. But you won't." Then she frowned. "I don't want that to happen, though. I want you to remember, to know that you could've had a different life. You might've been an educated and privileged norteamericano instead of a poor and ignorant peasant woman. You could've been my husband instead of my maid." Her face lit up. "I know! When you were a man, you had a birthmark on your butt. You had a scar on your belly from an appendectomy, and another scar on your arm." Involuntarily Rosa glanced at her left forearm. The scar was still there, the one from her -- no, his -- childhood bicycle accident. "He had a crooked finger, too, and green eyes -- no campesina has eyes like that. I'll leave you all those, as reminders of how you might have had a better life. Whenever you see the birthmark, or the scars, or the finger, or your eyes, it'll prove I did change you -- that you really were a man, once upon a time." Graciela tilted her head. "Now, if you won't work for me, you'll have to leave. You'll have to manage by yourself." Leave? But if 'Lita wouldn't help her, there was nothing she could do. There wasn't any way to make a decent living in her new body. "But... but where can I go? I... I can't go home! Not like this! And what can I do? 'Lita, you took everything from me. I can't even read!" Graciela smiled again. "I'm glad you asked me. That is a problem, isn't it? As for going home: well, you don't need to go anywhere. You're a hondurena; you are home. And what can you do? Well, that's plain. You can find a big strong man to marry you. You'll cook his meals, wash his clothes, and raise his kids. Don't you remember? That's what a woman does. Or so you told me. In the meantime, there are jobs for an illiterate campesina. I admit, the choices aren't attractive. You can be a maid -- like your own maid Mara Banderas. You're a lot like her now. Or perhaps you could clean toilets." Rosa denied it, and Graciela's smile broadened. "If you don't like those jobs, then maybe you can take advantage of your sex appeal. You'd make a good whore, I think. Whores don't need to read." She tilted her head and looked at Rosa speculatively. "In fact, maybe you should be a whore instead of a maid. You always liked sex when you used to be a man, true? Why don't I see that you make a living from it?" She nodded to herself. "Just so you'll know what it's like -- a preview, so to speak -- I'll put that in your past too." She gestured quickly and pointed at Rosa. "After your husband died, you went to work -- as a common prostitute. That's only justice, for a man who couldn't keep his trousers up. You liked sex a lot then. You still like sex. You'll make a fine whore -- again." Then she added, "Before you die of AIDS, that is. There's a lot of that here. Or maybe it'll be syphilis -- that doesn't take as much time to kill you." She turned a dial surreptitiously. Suddenly Rosa's eyes went wide. She remembered Mama Santiago's whorehouse, which she -- he -- had patronized with his old drinking companion, Pedro Velasco -- except that now she hadn't been a client, but one of the girls spreading her legs for Pedro, just another john smelling of beer and sweat. Yes, she'd been a whore. Her memory was distressingly vivid. And now she felt desire. More than desire: lust. She wanted a man, needed a man. The compulsion was unwelcome, but intense. No question, 'Lita was a bruja, and she could make her a whore -- again! "'Lita, nooo," she moaned. "Please, not that! Don't... don't make me a whore!" Suddenly she forgot her demand to return to her former self; a job as a maid looked like her salvation. "I... I agree! I'll be your... your m..maid!" "I don't know. I don't want a reluctant maidservant. I need a girl who'll serve me willingly and cheerfully. You're a free woman, Rosita. Do what you want, and go where you like. Go wherever you were planning to go yesterday morning before I found you. I don't care." She smiled. "But if you go, I promise you'll be in bed with a man before the week's up." Her lust ebbed. In terror Rosa begged, "'Lita, please, let me be your maid." Graciela let her smile fade and looked at Rosa severely. "Rosita, you're not my lover, or even my friend. You're not my social equal, just an ignorant peasant girl who needs a job. Address me respectfully as 'Senora Arias', or simply as 'Senora'." "Yes, Senora. Can I be your maid? Please? I beg you!" The form of address felt right. However desperately she tried to deny it, Rosa knew she was only a peasant -- had always been a peasant -- and Senora Arias was her natural superior. Her resistance was broken. "Why should I hire you now? You refused my offer a couple of minutes ago. You seemed to think you're too proud, too good, to be a humble maid." "Senora, please let me work for you! I'm just a peasant girl, like you said -- like you made me." A picture of Mama Luisa and Papa Jorge flashed into her memory. Her words were no more than the truth. "I want to be a maid -- I'll try to be a a good maid -- I can't do nothing else. I'll do the laundry, wash the dishes, mend clothes, serve at the table. Anything! I... I will be a good maid for you. Please, Senora." The thought of the alternative made her feel sick. "Very well, Rosita. I accept." A look of satisfaction settled on Graciela's face. "From this moment, you are my maid. You will cook for me, you will sew, you will wash my clothes. You'll do my dishes and clean my house. I have a child, Josecito. You'll care for him. Since your breasts have milk, you'll nurse him as well. I'll pay you the usual wage: room and board, and forty lempiras a day. And you'll have Thursdays off." The wages were poor, but she couldn't dicker, or even complain. "Yes, Senora, I agree. Thank you!" Graciela tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. "Rosita, do you remember, you refused to marry me in October? I said you'd regret it." "Yes, Senora." Had that been her? The question pushed her back to her male persona. "And then you said that a woman is built to please a man." "Yes, Senora, I did. I was foolish. I was wrong." "No, Rosita, you were right. After all, Anatomy Is Destiny. For some women. For example, a girl like you. I think... no, I know you'll see how right you were. As I said, you're sexy as hell. That means men'll want you, but it means more than that; you'll want a man, too. Think about it." Without looking, she set the libido control to a low, but not lowest, setting. She eyed Rosa speculatively and asked, "You do want a man, don't you? You need a man to hold you and kiss you and... all that. Isn't that true?" Horrified at the idea, Rosa denied it. "No! I... I'm not...! I never... I don't..." But even as she spoke, she suddenly knew she did want a man. It wasn't urgent, but she wanted a man's arms around her. More than that, Rosa knew she wanted... wanted to... "Nooo!" She rejected the thought, shaking her head violently, but it wouldn't be banished. Satisfied, Graciela nodded. Softly she repeated, "You see? Your body determines your destiny, like you said. You're made to want a man, and your body's made to satisfy a man. I made certain of that. Eventually you'll accept the inevitable and give yourself to some man. And you'll even enjoy it." Rosa shook her head in denial. Then, more briskly, Graciela added, "You'll agree to my rules if you want to work for me. You're forbidden to wear trousers. You're a woman now -- your kind of woman -- and as I told you, you'll comply with your old prejudices. You'll need to keep yourself attractive; after all, you need to find a husband. Every day you'll make your face up, and you'll do your hair." She paused, then ordered, "I'll have you wear it in braids, like you had yesterday. Or you can put it into a single braid, if you prefer -- that'd look right too, for the campesina you've become. Don't worry about not knowing how to braid it right; now you've been a campesina all your life, and you know exactly how to do it." Rosa suddenly knew that Senora Arias was right. Of course she knew! She'd been braiding her hair since she was six. "And you'll wear pretty dresses and skirts when you're off duty. You need to let men see how desirable you are. Do you agree?" Appalled at her fate but helpless, Rosa agreed. "Yes, Senora. And when I'm on duty?" "You'll wear a cute little uniform, so that everyone will know you're a maid. You'll find it on the bed in that room. Go put it on." The uniform was black with white lace trim. White hose, a white cap, an immaculate white apron, and black pumps completed it. Rosa donned it quickly -- the dress fit her new body perfectly, and it seemed familiar -- and returned. "Yes!" Graciela exclaimed, "That's exquisite! Now, one minor detail: I hate to break in an inexperienced girl. I'll take care of that with one final alteration in your past." Rosa shook her head, but Graciela pointed at her and gestured again. "Your own mother trained you as a maid, and you're good at it. You recall working for the Penas, no?" Suddenly Rosa did remember. "And I want you to be familiar with my own household routine, so as of this moment you've been my maid for months -- since last May, isn't that right?" Rosa began to deny it; last May she -- no, he -- had been back in Atlanta with Celia. "No! No, I..." But then she recalled El Progreso and Los Ocotes. It was impossible, but true. Like her new body and her new past. She hadn't been a norteamericano last year, but only a campesina. A whore, and now a maid. That was why the uniform seemed familiar. She noticed a red rosebud on the bodice of her uniform, and recalled that she herself had embroidered it, only last year. "Yes. Yes, Senora, I remember." "You're an experienced maid," Graciela confirmed. "And that's what you'll be from now on." As she spoke a baby began to cry in a nearby room. Graciela smiled. "There's one more surprise. I put milk into your breasts, didn't I? You've needed to relieve their discomfort, true?" The baby cried louder. Rosa's breasts ached with the pressure of her milk. She replied resentfully, "Yes, you did." "Yes, you did, Senora." Graciela waited, her eyebrow raised expectantly. "Yes, you did, Senora," Rosa corrected herself miserably. "That's better. It'll take time, I know -- after all, until I put you into that pretty little body you were an arrogant norteamericano -- but soon you'll show the proper respect for your betters without thinking about it. Now come with me." Rosa followed her to the next room, where a red-faced infant lay squalling in a crib. Her mistress noted, "She has your eyes, doesn't she, darling? And your old face too. She's made in your old image. Except that you'll raise her as a peasant girl, of course." Rosa's mouth dropped again. Graciela was right. The baby was Laurita, her daughter. How could she have forgotten? But she'd just now become a woman! How...? She dissolved in confusion. "Yes... yes, I remember. She's Laura Ana -- Laurita." Rosa recalled the discomfort of her pregnancy and the pain of labor. It wasn't possible, she told herself. Yesterday she'd been a man! She had! This baby couldn't be hers. But it wasn't possible that she had tits, either, or that she wore a campesina's face. It was true nonetheless. She looked down at her body. Her denial was silly in the face of the obvious. Graciela's smile was sugary. "I'm afraid a child is a bit of a handicap for a single mother. You'll need to care for her while you work, won't you? Now nurse her. After that, make the beds, and then you can wash the dishes. When they're done, the stove needs to be cleaned." Almost by instinct Rosa unbuttoned her dress, pulled up her bra, cradled the baby in one arm, and gave her a breast. The child sucked at the nipple greedily. It felt familiar to Rosa, as if she'd done it before. That was patently ridiculous. Still, she knew she couldn't leave Laurita. She'd need to take her. When the baby -- her daughter! -- was satisfied, she put her back in the crib and thought. Where could they go? Could her family help? Her papa had lived in San Pedro, but he was dead. Her mama was a maid in faroff Choluteca, and she didn't know where her sisters and brother were. No! These people didn't exist! She was... HE was... who? Jack something? "Jack" seemed wrong. Maybe "John"? It sounded more familiar. She couldn't remember her last name. Her real last name. The only name that fit was Rosa Mara Garza. Or Rosa Mara Garza de Sanchez, although Rico had died so soon that the name was unfamiliar. Obsessively she opened her handbag and looked at the passport again. It was printed there, but of course she couldn't read it. She couldn't be illiterate! She was a scientist, for God's sake! Her insistence faded in the face of the gibberish on the passport. Never mind, she told herself. She'd go to the embassy... She returned to reality. All that was impossible. She was only a campesina, without resources and with a baby to care for. She knew she was fortunate to have any job at all. There was nowhere else to go, nothing else she could do. She was Graciela's maid, and that was that. In despair she headed back towards Graciela's bedroom. There was a bed to be made up, and then the dishes and the stove waited for her.