As I walk, the bright, shining sun warms the skin that covers my physical form. I take my time and study the world around me.

The sky is familiar, but birds have evolved. Still, some familiar feathered forms flit about in the treetops, but there are new creatures. They fly at impossible heights and, accounting for the distance, must be large enough to carry away a full-grown mastodon. Their silent, gliding flight leaves behind a wake as in water and here and there the white lines cross one another. I hope I do not encounter such a creature until I've reached my full strength. The sun hangs low in the sky, so I know it's not full summer. Spring's heady musk, the aroma of new life in the moist black soil, fighting to live long enough to have sex and die, hangs rich in the air. Even the nose-burning patina of oily black fumes and unnatural odors cannot completely suppress nature's perfume.

The streets are busy. Surely, I've seen more people this day than I encountered in a year during my last incarnation. Every one of them reeks. Something is wrong with the majority of humans in this age. They smell almost like spices, almost like fruit, almost like the minerals of the earth, but never exactly of those things. Or of any other things one finds on Earth. The only ones that smell like humans are supposed to smell, sit leaning against the trunks of trees, wrapped in scraps and grinning up at me or wary-eyed as prey. They stink of rotted teeth and urine and sweat and death—the fragrance of chaos. The first few times I pass one of these wretched creatures, I breathe deeply, but after a few moments, nostalgia pricks my heart. I must focus on the future, not the past. I have a second chance. I must not waste it, as so many of my brothers and sisters would.

Everyone else traveling the flat stone path makes a wide berth around me. I nod, offering my blessing. Their deference pleases me. This is how mortals should behave when approached by a god. At least basic manners have not been forgotten. Some of the men look at me with obvious disgust. Poor souls. They are soft and pale and sickly in appearance, likely seething with jealousy as their woman cannot seem to take their gazes from my form. This is a fine body, and they take the measure of it boldly. The women of this age are like the rare creatures of the rainforest. The nails of their fingers and toes glisten in bright colors. Their teeth gleam, straight and white. Colorful textiles drape their ample, well-fed forms. Delicate bits of metal and stone dangle from their ears, around their necks, circle their ankles, wrists, and fingers. Every one of them has high, firm, round breasts. Or, perhaps their many wrappings shape them into an ideal form. How interesting would it be to unwrap such a woman—to peel away the layers and reveal the smooth flesh beneath? When I am appropriately clothed, after I've had the guardian, I will bed as many others as I can. Thinking of the guardian causes a pleasant stirring inside my loincloth.

I increase my pace, eager to get to my female. And, of course, to the high priest. Which is where my true interest and allegiance dwell.

Determined to present my best, most impressive self to my humans, I study as I travel. As a native speaker of the Divine Tongue, I can always understand or be understood, but I do not have words for half of what surrounds me. I gather them from the conversations of the other travelers as a woman gathers berries in the forest: phone, sneakers, car, bus, asshole, food truck, bitch, book, Republican, earbuds. Each syllable increases my understanding of the new world, but each measure of understanding brings more unanswered questions.

The buildings are smaller and closer together than they were back at the structure in which I awoke. I have a word for that place, now. An old man had mumbled it aloud while looking at his phone. Museum. I test the sound of the modern language on my lips. It's softer than the words of the past. More refined and lacking the inherent violence of the human speech from my memories. It is closer to the Divine Tongue, though still infinitely far away. Modern humans have a word for a place that exists for no purpose but to honor beautiful and unique items from the past and present. Those who slaughtered their enemies and ate their still-warm hearts did not even dream of such places, let alone create words for them.

These smaller buildings have large transparent fronts. I see two dozen people eating inside one of them. In another, a woman taps her fingers on a distinctly modern-looking tool I have no name for. I am desperate for more words.

Finally, I come to a place where statues so lifelike they must be imbued with divine magic, display coverings of many kinds.

For a moment, I watch. A woman steps out and walks away carrying a sack. Another woman enters. I follow her and find a brightly lit space with coverings hanging from sparse metal trees and from protuberances on the walls. Many lay folded in neat piles.

A man with pink hair and pink rings around his eyes rushes over to me and gives me a long, thorough look. "Well, then. Can I help you?"

"I require coverings," I say.

The man clicks his tongue. "Honey, if I had a body like yours, I'd never cover it up, but I suppose society dictates the rules. Am I right?" He props one hand on his hip. "What's your style, babe?"

"I am a god."

"Yeah, you are." He presses the tips of his fingers to my bicep and then hisses and shakes his hand as if burned. "I think I have just the thing. Follow me."

"Will you give me words?" I ask.

"Oh, honey. I'll talk all day long." He peeks back over his shoulder. "I'm guessing you're not from around here."

We pass some textiles so shiny and smooth, I can't help but reach out and run my fingers over them. I gasped. They feel like cool water turned solid. "Give me all the words. I need many words for all of these things."

"Well, the word for that," he points at the covering in my hand, "is trashy." He gasps and covers his lips with his fingertips. "But don't tell my boss I said that, okay?" He selects an item from a row of gray things. "If I was a god with a body like yours, I'd wear this. We call it an Armani suit." He adds a white covering. "I'd pair it with this slim-fit button down." He tosses another item on the pile in my arms. "Be sure to put the tee shirt under it. It's ten percent polyester, but don't hold that against us. It keeps it from shrinking in the wash."

"What is the word?" I ask, holding the thing that holds the Armani suit.

"That's a hangar, sweetie. It's included in the price, in case you were worried about that." He cocks his head. "You do have a wallet tucked inside there, right?"

A wallet holds forms of payments. Ah. Yes. This makes sense. He is a trader. I assure him I will reward him richly.

The man blows out a noisy exhale. "Whew. You had me worried there for a moment. Your English is great for a non-native speaker, BTW. I wish I could learn another language, but I'm hopeless."

"What is the word?" I asked again, pointing.

"That's a rack."

I stride to the front of the room and tap the transparent panel.

"Window."

The place where I'd entered is a door. The soft floor covering is carpet. Each word the man gives me is an offering, and each offering strengthens me. I gather a dozen more before the clerk gives a bemused smile and tells me, "You're my favorite customer, ever." Taking me by the hand, he leads me to a small room and nudges me inside.

"Why do you do this?"

"This is where you get dressed."

A thrill of fear passed through me when I gazed upon the pile of unfamiliar... clothing.

Adapt.

Evolve.

Stay flexible.

Thus determined, I lift each item and determine which part of my body it best matches. Tucking is tricky. Buttons are trickier. Zippers are a wonder and, again, I marvel at how far humans have come since I last walked among them. When I'm down to the last two things, I take my best guess and put them on my body. Sweating lightly as if I'd engaged in heavy exercise, I step out of the tiny room.

The trader taps his fingers against his lips. He seems to be holding back laughter. "Close, sweetie. You were so close." He pulls the leather thing from around my neck and removes the soft crimson bit from my waist and exchanges their places. It takes him several seconds to make an elaborate knot at the base of my throat and fold the collar of the button down over it. "There. What do you think?" He pushes me toward three reflective windows that show me from different angles.

I reach forward and my reflection reaches toward me. I turn and see my image grew smaller and smaller into infinity. This is an entirely new kind of chaos. "It's wonderful. What is the word?"

"I think the word is fabulous." His gaze trails down my form and back up again, and he sighs.

I touch the fabulous. It is cool and firm beneath my fingers, despite a water-like appearance. "This fabulous pleases me."

Without looking away from my backside, the trader says, "No, honey. That's a mirror. You are fabulous."

Ah, yes. The definitions fall into place in my mind, and it makes much more sense that way. He's right. I am fabulous. Every part of me except my hands and face are buried in multiple layers of clothing, but it has the same effect on me as it does on the women I'd seen. Somehow, covering my glorious body enhances it. Makes it even more glorious. "It is good," I tell him. "What favor do you ask of me in return?"

"Well, let's go ring you up."

We walk to the front of the store and the trader taps on what he says is a cash register. "That will be three thousand, one hundred, sixty-two dollars, and forty-three cents."

An image of paper covered in pretty pictures flashes through my mind. "This is what you want?"

"Well, honey, it's not what I want. I get about nine bucks for the time we spent together, but I'll carry the memories forever. The rest of the cash goes to the boss."

"Cash?" This is another word for dollars. Why do humans covet these papers?

"You did say you could pay."

Is he doubting me? How rude. "I never leave a debt."

"Great. So I'm going to need three thousand, one hundred, sixty-two dollars, and forty-three cents. We also accept credit cards, of course."

"Do you have a credit card?" I ask.

"Honey, I've got a wallet full of them and my mother does not approve."

I stretch my neck one way and the other. This body is strong. I am fabulous. The trader has offered me dozens of new words. I am ready. "May I see it?"

The trader sighs, produces a small pouch from the folds of his clothing, and removes a black rectangular object. "I'm not swiping for you."

"No, of course not." I slip my hands into the folds of my new pants and wrap my fingers around the offering the priest gave me. In my other hand, a small flat rectangle forms. It is identical in every way to the one the man holds. I pull it out and lay it on the counter.

The man breathes a deep sigh. "Thank you. NGL, I was getting a little worried there for a second."

"Our trade has been most fruitful," I say and then incline my head out of respect for the assistance and offerings he gave me and then I walk out. Behind me, he calls for me to wait. Understandable that he longs to continue basking in the presence of a god, but the tug of the high priest's bond continues to pull on me. Now that I am appropriately dressed, I do not want to waste time.

Outside, two squirrels chase each other along a cord that stretches over the pathway. I let a tiny ripple of power shiver away from me. One of the creatures drops a nut it's carrying with its small, sharp teeth. The nut bounces off the shoulder of a man crossing at the green light and he spins toward the guy behind him. "You want to start something?"

The light turns red. Loud blaring noises startle the squirrels. One falls and lands on a woman's back. She runs, screaming, and crashes into an old lady carrying a bag of fruit. The bag splits open and fruit rolls everywhere.

A young man on a rolling board tries desperately to stop but fails to do so. He collides with a can full of garbage. It tips over, spilling its smelly contents across the pathway. 

There's no way I can contain my laughter. That was hilarious! It's good to be back.

The pull of the priest leads me away from the trading center and past all manner of structures. I walk until I come to a quiet path where the cars sit in silence. Towering trees with branches heavy with red buds stretch overhead, forming a shady archway. Homes with many windows  reflect the pink light of the setting sun sit in neat rows. Most have a door on the front and another on the side, and they look welcoming and safe. Amazing. Humans left behind their dark mountain holes and the questionable shelter of tanned hides and built caves wherever they wanted them, but never had I seen any so sturdy and colorful.

At last, I come to the place where my heart grows calm because of the presence of the high priest. I peek through a window and see him sitting with a man and woman who are, presumably, his parents. Bowls of food fill the space in the center of them and each has a portion of their own. The boy chatters happily, making big gestures with his hands. He laughs heartily and often, but the parents only offer weak smiles as they listen to his ramblings.

Something about the weary hunch of their shoulders reminds me of the man who gestured with one finger from the window of his car, the people who watched me with wary expressions outside the museum, the women and their unfed desires, the men and their jealous impotence. My heart aches for them. Humanity has grown far past the chaos of new beginnings. They have gained extraordinary power to shape their environment. Everything is in order now. Of course, they struggle with bland boredom and irrational anger.

These people need me. Thanks be, I'm back to set things straight.