THE POOR LIFE

Grayham's POV

"You really live like this?"

I bellowed off the wafer-thin walls of the hospital room, glaring up at the ceiling before letting my gaze drift over to the grime-covered tiles on the floor. The entire building was a cry of abandonment—like even the flies were too embarrassed to be part of the scenery.

Miles, or I, to be precise, sitting there in my body with that exhausted look in his eyes, didn't reply. He simply rubbed the bridge of his nose as though he'd lived a decade over night.

"No television. No good coffee. And the nurse referred to the toilet as a 'shared facility.' Is that even legal?"

"Grayham."

"No. No, I'm not done." I collapsed back onto the thin hospital bed, which creaked like it had arthritis. "This is hell. This is what you call life? Jesus."

He got up. "You think I wanted this? You think this is what I wanted for myself?"

I sat up, laughing. "Well, someone has to want it, because it's certainly not me. I wouldn't put a damn dog in here."

He stared at me coldly. "You think you have such a perfect life? Money. Cars. Women. Power. You've got all that but no peace at all."

"Peace?" I smiled. "You think of yourself as peaceful? Bouncing from pay check to pay check, footing the next electricity bill? That's not peaceful. That's existing."

He stepped closer to me. "At least I don't squash people to get something."

I was here now, eyeball to eyeball with me. Or, anyway, with him.

"Don't give me the holier-than-thou speech. You're superior to me? Just because you grew up in a household where love meant something and not just leverage? News flash, Miles—your conscience doesn't fly when you're starving."

He didn't blink. "I know hunger. You know only emptiness. Not the same."

That was a bit too close.

"So what do you want? Huh? You want a trophy? A pat on the back for living in a dump and not turning into a serial killer?"

"I want you to stop acting like your life's a curse," he snapped. "You have resources. You could do some good. Instead, you ruin lives. Like mine."

I crossed my arms. "Right. And now you wish to give me a lecture about compassion? You're inside me, remember? 

He stepped forward, his tone husky. "You destroyed my home. That building? You commissioned it. And now I'm not allowed to come back. And now my grandpa thinks you're me. And he won't get to hug his real grandson again until we straighten things out."

"Then let's straighten things out. But in the meantime, we pretend. You be me. I be you. We survive."

"And what if we don't switch back?"

"Then I'll see your life's better than what you left behind."

He snorted. "You can't buy your way into my world, Grayham."

"But I can hellaciously buy you out of it."

The air between us thickened as heavy as wet cement.

Then the knock came.

Soft. Timid.

"Miles?"

The door creaked ajar before either of us moved. A gaunt, old man hauled himself inside, a plastic bag clutched in his hands, a threadbare coat with patches, eyes aglow with hope.

"Grandpa," Miles breathed.

It was me, though, whom he was gazing at. Or at least my likeness within Miles's flesh.

"Miles, my boy," the old man wept, his voice trembling.

I stepped back one step.

"No, no… sir, wait—

He didn't. He walked towards me, as fast as his arthritic legs could manage, and wrapped me in a squeeze hug. He smelled of soap and dry wood.

"Thank God you're okay."

I glanced at the real Miles, over on the other side of the room, eyes pink-rimmed, fists clenched up.

"I brought your favorite," Grandpa said, waving the bag in his hand. "Chicken yam soup. Made it myself this morning."

"Sir, I really don't think—"

"Eat. You need your strength."

He pulled out a bowl, ladled in the soup, and sat beside me.

"Here. Open wide."

"I'm not five."

"You're my grandson. And I nearly lost you. Open."

He forced the spoon into my mouth. I groaned.

Miles bit his knuckle, stifling a laugh that felt like a sob, from across the room.

"That's it," said Grandpa, grinning. "Still warm, yeah?"

He cleaned my chin with a napkin.

"I—I thank you for this," I stammered. "But I—"

He hushed me. "Don't talk. Heal. You're my boy. Nothing else matters."

I glanced at Miles.

Meanwhile, I'm stuck inside you, having soup with a plastic spoon and trying to tell myself this isn't a waking nightmare.”

His face was unreadable.

"We have to make this right," I whispered later, when Grandpa slept in the chair beside me.

"Yeah," Miles said. "Before he figures out how big a bastard you've become."

He smiled a little smile. But it faded too quickly.

We both sat in s

ilence, trapped in each other's worlds, neither of us wanting to be there.

But both of us knowing we had no choice.