After my shower, I wrapped the towel around myself and walked back to my room, only to find Denmark, who had spiked my hair up with hair gel, wearing his own red shirt and pants, both of which, were far too big on my own slight frame.
“Hey, check it out, Norge! You’re going commando!”
“Dammit, Denmark! Put on some underwear!”
“No way in hell!” He smirked. “And guess what? I finally found out what this thing does!” He pointed to my hair curl. Oh, god. Seeing my expression of horror, he gave it a good, hard yank, and promptly fell to the floor, knees buckling in pleasure. “The best part about it is that I can pull on it at the world meeting! No one will care!” He laughed, pulled it again, and groaned.
“You better have been thinking of a solution,” I said, changing the subject and trying very hard not to strangle him. If I killed him in my body, would that make me dead?
“Well yeah. I say we just explain to everyone what happened.”
“That’s a terrible idea. Who do you think is going to believe a ridiculous story like that? No. I say we make an effort to act like each other. Just for the day. If we haven’t thought of a real solution by the end of the meeting, we can figure something else out.” I checked the digital clock on the end table. “I’ll go wake up Iceland. We have to get going.”

“Ice?” I rapped on the door twice. No answer. “Iceland? You up?” I opened the door a crack. He turned around, seeming more awake than he usually did at this time in the morning.
“Oh. Like, hey, Denmark.” He flipped his short, white bangs out of his face.
“Ice, are you okay?”
“Not really. It’s freezing in here.”
“This is the same temperature as it was last night. You always complain when we put it up,” I responded. Something was definitely up.
“Oh, right. I guess I’ll just go make breakfast,” he said. Did Iceland always speak in monotone? No. Could he have possibly swapped bodies too? Perhaps, though that canceled out any of my theories of how Denmark and I switched souls. To the best of my knowledge, Iceland had not had anyone over last night. Iceland slipped away and walked downstairs. I followed him into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. Who would he have switched with?

“Iceland, what in the world are you making? It does not smell like breakfast,” I said, without looking up from my coffee.
“Cheung fan,” He replied simply. “Hong Kong taught me how to make it.”
So was it Hong Kong he switched with? It sort of made sense. They’d been going out. Was that the method to the madness? Did only the countries who were going out with each other swap bodies?
“And it is breakfast.” He scooped a pile of noodles into a bowl. I was surprised by the ease with which Hong Kong navigated our kitchen.
“Can I try some?”
“Sure,” he replied. Denmark came down the stairs. Thank God, he had changed into my clothes. His hair, however, was still spiked.
“You took a long time, Norway,” I muttered. He snickered at me using my own name. I shot him a dirty look. “We’ll be late. We have to pick up the Sweden and Finland.” Or could it possibly be Finland and Sweden? This was going to be a long day.