"It's happened to others," he says, still shocked by the sound of his voice. His accent is still clearly West Midlands, but the pitch has changed, luckily not to the extent where it reminds him of his mother. Instead it brings to mind a young nun who had worked in the first group home he had been sent to, one of the few who had been kind to him, who had tried her best to keep him from the abuse of the other boys.

He'd gone to bed wearing nothing at all and when he lifts the covers to look at himself, Marcus can't help but stare. The body is still strong, with wiry muscles, but there's a softness there, too. His hips are narrow, but rounder, and that's to say nothing of the breasts.

He has breasts. Dan is touching him and the feeling is nice, but distant, because all Marcus can focus on is the change.

"I would blame You," he says, looking up toward the ceiling, speaking to God rather than Dan for a moment. "But You've never had much of a sense of humour."