"I'm not sure. I can't bet my life on it", is your answer.
Red breaks out crying. Julie lowers her eyes. "Your first, and last, failure, jeune homme", she says. Then she takes a pinch of grey powder out of a poach on her
belt and blows it on your face.
You're not quick enough, and can't hold your breath. You inhale some powder and start coughing.
Your vision blurs, your head swims. You begin to have trouble standing.
A sharp pain streaks through your neck, and you scream in pain. To your surprise, your scream comes out as a loud bray.
You try taking your hands to your mouth, but you can't reach it: the joints in your arms are stiff, and your neck is somewhat longer.
You lose your balance, and fall on all fours. Your feel your feet burning with pain, and then you hear your shoes rip apart. Your body is itching all over, and you
can see coarse grey fur growing on your forelegs.
Forelegs? You're confused. Aren't those your arms? Your hands?
Arms? Hands? What's a "hand"?
No, no, you have to keep calm, you're a man, not a donkey, you don't have... ..arms or anything. You have hooves. And forelegs. But something must be wrong.
Pressure. All around your chest. Feels like.. ..cotton fabric, of course! Your shirt is straining, your chest is bulging out! Your skin feels rough, leathery.. ..free, at
last! And your hindquarters, too. You bray with joy, kicking away.. ..what's left of your pants. Your human thoughts are fading.. washed away.. by a smell.. a smell
of.. grass! Yum, crunchy!
You're a donkey, now. In body, mind and soul. Your mistress slaps you hard, saying something you don't understand. The tone is angry. She points at the stable.
Meekly, you obey her orders.