Greer got home, still somewhat buoyed up by the excitement of Thanksgiving dinner and the party afterwards.  She turned on the radio and made herself a mug of mocha; then, setting it on the warmer at the back of the sofa, she went into her study, turned on her computer, and downloaded the day’s sudokus.
She sipped her mocha, and tried to concentrate.  Fortunately, it was the beginning of the week, so the puzzles were easy ones.  Even so, as she checked her time, it was obvious that the long, long day was wearing on her focus.  Literally, for her eyes were gummy and her contact lenses rather smeared.
With the jigsaw sudoku complete, she hauled herself off the soft, soft cushions and went back to the study.  She entered the numbers; she checked them twice; and then she did so again after sending them to the website.
Bleary-eyed, she looked at her accumulated e-mail and started deleting spam.  This left yet another note from her sister, this time thanking her for beta-reading her story, and asking whether Greer had yet started writing the next one in the series.
Clearly, she had still failed to get through to Flo just how overwhelmed she'd been over the past ten days.  Greer wondered whether she should take the time to reply.  She badly wanted to wait till morning; but her sister was in England.  With the five-hour difference, it was now nearly morning there:  Flo would be able to read a reply before going to work.  Dutifully, therefore, Greer hit “Reply”, and typed, “Not yet”.  Then she opened Internet Explorer, clicked on the website for the Forever Knight Wiki, and added, “Check these,” copy-pasting the urls for the pages for the factions and the wars.  On the latter, she noted that “War 13” was listed with a blue link.  Someone must have already written it a page of its own; so she added that url, too.  Maybe (if she bothered to look at them), her sister would begin to grasp what was going on in Toronto right now.
Greer hit “Send”, and turned off the computer.  She got up heavily, went to her bedroom and stripped, and padded back to the bathroom to take a shower.  The hot water failed to revive her.  Her eyes were feeling a little sore from having the contacts in so long.  She yearned for sleep.
Taking out her contact lenses and putting them back in their regular case, Greer turned out the light and crawled into bed.

Greer woke once, in the late morning, headed blindly for the bathroom, and then returned straight to bed.  She did not wake properly until the early afternoon.  As always, the first thing she did was cross the room and put in her contacts.  Then she opened the top drawer of the chest-of-drawers to get clean underwear.
For a moment—but only a moment—the emptiness puzzled her.  Even when the laundry desperately needed to be done, the top drawer was never quite that empty.  Then she realized the obvious.  Nevertheless, like everyone else, she felt compelled to check: the heap of yesterday’s clothes that wasn’t on the floor where she’d dropped them; the drawers that didn’t hold sweaters; the closet where empty hangers entwined promiscuously without their clothes to keep them apart.  Her sandals were no longer lying under the coffee table in the living room.  The hall closet held no coats; the laundry basket had only dirty sheets.
She opened the door to the front hall, where her dirty gardening clothes were as absent as her boots, and headed upstairs—not bothering to wrap herself in a sheet or towel, for there was no one to see her.
She went through her mother’s living room and upstairs to the top floor.  As she’d expected, her mother’s clothes—those she had not taken with her—were all still where they belonged.
Twenty minutes later, though, Greer had to concede that she and her mother were simply too different in size for her to be able to borrow anything.  Her mother had always been shorter; as well, she had lost weight.  Greer might, perhaps, have been able to stretch a sweatshirt over her girth; but it was simply impossible to pull any pair of trousers up.  They stuck.
So that wouldn't work.
She put everything back, all too aware that in only a few hours her mother would be returning from the conference—and she had better be clad by then, or there would be questions asked, and hell to pay if she answered them.
She went back downstairs, wondering if there was anyone from whom she might borrow clothes.  The trouble was that it was equally obvious that neither Chanda’s clothes nor Teresa’s would fit—not that Chanda had very many clothes left, either.
Inspiration struck.  Greer went to the phone, checked her little black address book, and called her sister long-distance in England.  As long as she picked up….
The phone rang, and rang again.  Greer was all too aware that her sister tended to ignore it, especially if she was upstairs.  However, just as she was about to give up, her sister came on the line.
Greer explained her dilemma.  And the solution she proposed.  Then she hung up and waited.
A half hour later, the phone rang.  All was ready.
Greer got a sheet from the cupboard and wound it round to cover her pink nudity, in as best an imitation of a Greek peplos as she could manage.  Her sister she didn’t mind about; but there would probably be others there, and she had no wish to embarrass anyone.  Judiciously, she decided to add a few well-placed safety pins, just to be sure.
Then she headed along the hall, with that slight twist to the interfictional dimensions that let her shift, and found herself … elsewhere.
The porch of the Community Clubhouse was just in front of her—the Community to which she and her sister both belonged, a LiveJournal community whose members shared a universe which all could visit, along with the characters.  (It was, however, a book-based fandom; so, for the duration of the War, Greer dutifully blanked out the name, as per the rules of FKFIC-L.)
As she walked up the steps, her sister came out of the door with a large suitcase.  “I don’t think I’m supposed to give you actual dialogue,” Greer apologized.  “You didn’t sign a permission slip.  Of course, you’ve written me into some of your stories about this place; so I don’t imagine you’d object.  But there are Rules.”
Her sister grinned at this, and pushed the handle of the suitcase over to Greer, who promptly took it and disappeared home.

Of course, the two of them weren’t quite the same size, either—but much closer.  So (albeit with rolled back sleeves and safety pins fixing turned-up pants legs), Greer was able to open the door to her mother an hour later, and greet her cheerfully, and carry her bag upstairs.  And her mother was none the wiser.